


Take Cover

by Lamachine



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Episode Related, Eventual Relationships, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Previously known as Aletheia - Alternate Ending on Tumblr
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-14
Updated: 2014-12-27
Packaged: 2018-02-13 04:04:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2136327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lamachine/pseuds/Lamachine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There’s a smile on Root’s lips before she completely loses consciousness, and Sameen doesn’t know what to do with it."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Previously known as _Aletheia - Alternate Ending_ on Tumblr. Since I'm reaching the tenth post with this story, I thought I'd publish the whole thing in a more easily readable thing. First chapter is composed of parts one to five, slightly re-written, and takes place right after the events of PoI's _Aletheia_.

_Left on Lexington_

 

She walks down the empty street, turns left on Lexington. The blinking lights of the city hurt her eyes and her footsteps echo loudly, too loudly against the closed-down buildings. It isn’t a nice part of town but it isn’t why she worries, and she knows she would swallow nervously if only she could produce saliva. A side effect from all the drugs, perhaps?

 

_Turn right on 37 th_

 

She turns right and walks down a few buildings before the Machine gives her an address. She repeats the numbers in her mind a few times, concentrating on the darkened facade until she finds it. When she does, Root knows her mind isn’t quite back to normal yet because she should have recognized it earlier – the neighborhood, the street. Shaw’s. She stops.

 

_Need medical assistance_

 

Root rolls her eyes. “I’ve been doing fine on my own,” she complains aloud, but runs up the stairs all the same when a police car drives down the block. It’s ridiculous, of course – she’s not running from the NYPD, not this time at least, and yet, she can’t shake off her fear. This creeping terror that someone will grab her and force her back into that cage, it presses on her lungs until she chokes.

 

She throws up in one of the empty flower pots garnishing the entrance of Sameen’s building.

 

_Withdrawal may cause increased heart rate, loss of consciousness, seizures, anxiety, paranoia, extreme fatigue, cardiac arrest_

 

“Along with nausea and abdominal pain, I presume,” Root jokes as she wipes the back of her hand against her dry lips. The Machine doesn’t glorify her statement with an answer; the hacker guesses She’s angry, or worse – worried. She looks at the apartment numbers, wondering if she should ring up Shaw’s so that she would let her in through the front door. Gleefully pretends, for a minute, that she is a normal person, just visiting a friend. If it wasn’t two in the morning, and most importantly if she hadn’t been tortured for hours by Control only moments prior, she might believe it.

 

_Back alley, third level, fourth window_

 

Sometimes, Root wonders if She can hear her thoughts, too, but she knows it’s too romantic an idea to actually exist. Nevertheless, she makes her way towards the back alley, easily finds the right fire escape. She climbs up three flights of precarious stairs to get to Sameen’s window, fighting the urge to retch again. Catching a glimpse of her reflection in the glass, she notices the sweat darkening her t-shirt and the patches of dried blood down her neck. She frowns. She doesn’t like the idea of being seen this way – especially by Shaw.

 

_Asset is asleep_

 

“Good,” Root replies, yet she doesn’t know what difference it makes, whether Sameen is awake or not. She lets her body slump against the cold metal of the fire escape, back uncomfortably resting against the railing. There are tears coming up her eyes and she doesn’t want to go forward.

 

_Need medical assistance_

 

“I know,” and she closes her eyes for only a second. When she opens them again, the dizziness is stronger than before and she thinks she won’t be able to resist throwing up this time. A noise just in front of her startles her; a window opening.

 

“What the hell,” Sameen steps through – or at least, Root believes it is her. As the light in Shaw’s living room is now turned on, she’s almost entirely blinded, and all she can distinguish is an agile shadow holding a gun. “Root, that you?”

 

The weakened body that was once Root tries to open her mouth and speak, but nothing comes out. The shadow moves closer quickly and reaches to her. “Fuck,” Sameen complains as her fingers check for the hacker’s pulse. She finds it weak, and then searches for broken bones. When she’s certain she can move the unconscious brunette without worsening any previous injury, she hesitates only a moment before pulling her into her apartment. Root’s uncontrolled limbs hit the railing a few times, the metallic noise echoing through the night until a neighbor yells a strong “hey, it’s fucking two in the morning, man!”

 

Shaw is acutely aware of the late hour. She’s tired and was quite frankly enjoying some rest, after the fucked up day she’s had. Hammer time, although very fun, really takes a lot out. Still, she can’t bring herself to abandon Root outside, bloodied and unconscious. Plus, there’s a storm on the way. She winces – those aren’t her words.

 

She’s just managed to pull her onto her bed when Root conveniently wakes up, blinking lazily, pupils dilated.

 

“Couldn’t wait to get me into your bed, Shaw?” Root flirts, but her voice is broken. Shaw rolls her eyes, knowing better than to answer that. She leaves to grab supplies from her bathroom, and when she does come back, the half-conscious woman resting on her mattress has managed to pull herself up. She sits upright, back against the wall, and doesn’t look very good.

 

“You were shot?” Shaw shakes the memory of Root lying on the floor, of her panicked voice reciting the elevator’s code. A lot’s happened since then, and obviously not just with Harold and Arthur.

 

Absently, Root nods and points to her left shoulder, where Hersh’s bullet went through.

 

“Anywhere else,” Shaw asks, although she is already replacing the bandages around the wound. Root shakes her head, and the quick motion causes her eyes to widen and her skin to turn pale. “You’re gonna throw up?”

 

Shaw instinctively reaches down, grabs a garbage can and empties its contents on the floor beside her bed. She unceremoniously drops it on Root’s lap, and orders; “in the can. If you mess up, I send you back where you came from, understand?”

 

Her words are impatient and angry, but her eyes aren’t quite speaking the same language.

 

“Yes ma’am,” Root replies with a small salute. Tears have gathered at the corner of her eyes, but after a few deep breaths they have disappeared.

 

Once Shaw is finished with the bullet wound, she leaves Root’s side for a few seconds and returns with a washcloth. Only then she manages to ask the question that’s been bugging her ever since she laid eyes on the hacker. “Wanna tell me how you got that blood on you?”

 

Root smirks, despite her obvious unfavorable predicament. “Don’t worry, it’s all mine.”

 

It’s not reassuring, Sameen thinks, but she would never admit it aloud. She brushes the towel against Root’s skin, more careful than she usually is – mostly because the girl winces every now and then, even though Shaw only finds futile cuts and a few bruises. When she gets to the wound on the right cheek, the hacker starts to tremble again. After an impatient sigh, Shaw’s left hand snakes her way behind Root’s head and firmly holds her in place. Under the pressure, Root cries out loudly and pushes Sameen’s arm away.

 

Her pupils are dilated as if she was going to pass out, but she stares at Shaw nonetheless, a defiant look on her face that the agent can’t explain. Her right hand cups Root’s chin and turns her head to the side, raising the long brown curls to reveal a deep cut.

 

“Don’t,” Root warns, but it comes off as a whispered begging.

 

Shaw blinks a few times. She’s seen that type of scars before, but only in manuals. She’s never seen a real life stapedectomy before, and she suddenly realizing how odd it is that Root’s wounds have been cleaned and bandaged up already, and with professional and clean supplies even, whether than with the usual cheap emergency kit stuff.

 

“What happened to you?”

 

The agent stares, waiting for an answer, even as a shaky hand pushes her away. A weakened Root shoves the garbage can into her as hardly as she can manage before she slips off the bed, trying to get back on her feet.

 

“You don’t look so good,” Shaw insists when the hacker almost falls, holding herself up by leaning against the wall. Her hands are shaking and a tear has broken the dam, running down Root’s cheek. “Don’t do that shit,” Sameen orders.

 

Root brushes it away.

 

_Detoxification will require Naltrexone, Clonidine or Methadone_

 

The hacker tries to move away from the wall but loses her balance. She falls back on the bed and laughs shortly. “I won’t cry.”

 

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you look like a fucking junkie right now,” Shaw tries, noticing the erratic breathing, that crazy look in Root’s eyes. The hacker avoids her stare and her silence tells Sameen that she’s onto something. She grabs the brunette’s arms, examining the skin under the sickened sweat. “Fuck,” she repeats, finding here and there the familiar pricks of a needle. A constellation on Root’s trembling arm.

 

“Your old boss is fun,” the hacker answers in a twisted, childish voice. “She gave me free drug samples, a lot of them,” the brunette continues, her eyes closing despite her best efforts. She pulls her limb out of the agent’s hold. “And then she took my ear.”

 

Shaw is familiar with the kind of torture, though she has never tried it herself. From what she heard, it is far from being _fun_ , and very hard to resist. She wonders how strong Root’s resolve must have been if she pushed Control into creative mutilations in a matter of hours.

 

“You need a hospital,” Sameen says, more for the formality than anything else. She knows very well that Root won’t step foot in a medical facility – she is, after all, on the run from the ISA and therefore, most authorities.

 

“The Machine says I need you,” Root replies, head turning so that their eyes meet once again.

 

“I’m no doctor,” Shaw argues, although she knows it is too late. Now that she has dragged her into her apartment, she made Root her problem, and she won’t be able to get rid of her that easy.

 

“That’s not exactly true, is it,” and she crosses her arms over her stomach, clutching until her knuckles turn white, obviously in pain.

 

Shaw sighs loudly – one last rebellion before she caves in. She leaves the hacker’s side to grab a few more things from her kitchen – another recipient, filled with cold water; a jug of orange juice from the fridge; a pair of scissors and the container where she keeps all her medicine vials. When she returns to the main room of her loft, a feverish Root has already made her way under her bed sheets and trembles in a fetal position.

 

“You’re buying me new sheets,” Shaw declares, leaving the orange juice on her nightstand before she refreshes the washcloth in the cold water.

 

As soon as it makes contact with her skin, Root hisses. “Does it have to be this cold?”

 

“You’re running a fever,” Sameen explains as she pulls off the sheets to apply the cloth on the hacker’s neck and arms.

 

“Is that your way of saying I’m hot,” the brunette jokes, although right now she is acutely aware of how unattractive she is.

 

“Yeah, I like my women sweaty and nauseous,” Shaw complains as she continues her task, ignoring the few moans of protest coming from under her. When she’s done, she respectfully waits a few seconds before she asks; “how many?”

 

Root pulls herself up once again, eyes blinking in confusion.

 

“How many doses did she give you?”

 

_Seventeen doses of Thiopental, seventeen doses of various amphetamines_

 

Root laughs, and Shaw looks at her like she is crazy but waits for an answer anyway. “Thirty-four in total,” she finally offers.

 

“And you managed to keep count?” Shaw sounds impressed.

 

“No, She did,” and they both know who she’s talking about. The Machine. The one who should have prevented that Root would be taken prisoner in the first place. Sameen has never been one for working in teams, but still, she knows damn well that no one’s supposed to be left behind.

 

She opens her mouth to say something – she doesn’t know what exactly, it feels like an apology but it cannot be because Sameen never apologizes for who she is and what she does. Still, she cannot find out, because the hacker cuts her off.

 

“She said She was sorry,” and while Root smiles, Shaw wonders what she is supposed to reply to that. Awkward, stuck with her unspoken words, she stands up once again.

 

“I’ll get you something to wear; it’s not good that you stay in stained clothes.”

 

It’s a strange decision, and she doesn’t know where it comes from, but still, she goes through her drawers, finds a pair of boxers and a tank top and returns to the bed. There, Root is barely conscious as Shaw cuts open her t-shirt so she can easily take it off without brushing against the right ear’s open wound. It takes more effort to pull down the pants, especially since the brunette isn’t helping, and then to finally put on fresh clothes, but Sameen manages.

 

After she’s thrown the stained t-shirt and pants away, she checks her medicine supplies, searching for the right drug, mentally calculating the dosage for a quick treatment. Withdrawal therapy isn’t even close to her specialty, but she devises a plan anyway. When she picks one vial out of the lot, a trembling hand places itself on her thigh.

 

“No needles,” Root begs, half-conscious. “Please.”

 

She knows right away that it won’t be possible – she doesn’t have the right kind of dosage in pills and even if she had, Root’s system wouldn’t have the strength to keep them down long enough to digest them. Yet, she finds herself unable to tell the hard truth.

 

“Not tonight,” she promises, putting her supplies aside.

 

There’s a smile on Root’s lips before she completely loses consciousness, and Sameen doesn’t know what to do with it.

 

 

[...]

 

 

Shaw’s foot buries deeper in the mattress every time she pours herself a glass, one eye on the clock. It’s five in the morning now, and yet she sits, chair balanced on two legs, staring at her unconscious, uninvited guest. She watches as the peaceful traits twist, as Root’s body starts turning from one side to the other, restless. Shaw almost loses her balance when the hacker suddenly springs upward, lunging towards the opposite side of the bed and grabbing the trash can as a life buoy.

 

When she’s done emptying the contents of her already emptied out stomach, Root blindly pats around her until she finds the washcloth beside the pillow. She cleans up her face and runs the wet towel on the back of her neck, desperate for some relief. Her sickened and tensed body is pained furthermore by a major headache. She sighs as she turns around, only to see a smiling Shaw pouring herself another drink.

 

“That’s disgusting,” Root complains, rearranging the sheets to cover her bare legs, seemingly surprised by the change of clothes.

 

“No, _you’re_ disgusting,” Shaw opposes, taking a sip from her glass before she grabs another one, already filled with orange juice. “Here, drink up,” she offers the disgruntled hacker.

 

With her back resting against the cold wall, Root brings the drink to her lips and grimaces. “Does it really have to be warm?” Shaw only shrugs, and so the hacker resolves to drink a mouthful. As soon as the liquid hits her tongue, the brunette makes a face, staring at the juice as if it were poisoned. “Is there salt in this?”

 

“Helps with dehydration,” Sameen explains, obviously amused by Root’s expression. “Come on, it’s not even that bad,” she insists, setting her own glass aside to grab her medical kit. “Who knew you were so grumpy in the morning?”

 

“You’re the one to talk.” Root pouts. “And I’m sick.”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Shaw grabs a pack of antiseptic wipes, small gauze pads and some tape from her first aid kit. “Time for your shot, junkie.”

 

Although Root winces, she doesn’t say a word as she obediently sets her orange juice on the settee. Shaw mentally thanks her for not making a scene; she doesn’t know quite what to do with a tortured hacker, and finds the crazy flirty chick way easier to handle. She moves to sit by her side on the bed, where she prepares the injection.

 

Eyes locked onto the needle, Root’s breathing becomes erratic as the syringe fills with the methadone. In her ear – _the good one_ , she thinks bitterly – the Machine describes the concoction and its effects on withdrawal patients. She absently extends her arm, letting the back of her hand hit the mattress seconds before Shaw’s fingers snake around the limb. Sameen has set the needle aside, holding Root’s arm against her palm while she disinfects the curve of her patient’s elbow. The antiseptic wipe is cold and rough against the hacker’s skin, a sheer contrast with Shaw’s warm, firm hold.

 

When Sameen throws aside the antiseptic and grabs the needle, Root braces herself as for impact. She swallows hardly, eyes widening while the syringe approaches her arm. With her muscles contracted she stops breathing, as if suspended, awaiting for the pain that is sure to come.

 

“Don’t look at it.” Shaw instructs, and the hacker suddenly looks up, a surprised look on her face, like she’s only now recognizing the woman holding the needle. As if she had expected someone else.

 

“Just admiring your work, Sameen,” she flirts after a beat, though it sounds rushed and forced.

 

Shaw shrugs. “If the muscle’s too tensed it’s gonna hurt.”

 

Root laughs then, a broken laugh that brings tears to her eyes. “Yes, yes it will.”

 

Shaw feels like she should reply something, maybe inquire about the torture but the worrying look on Root’s face disappears in a flash, and the muscles start relaxing under her fingers. She notices the hacker has closed her eyes, now breathing down deeply.

 

_In. Out. In. Out. In._

 

The Machine creates the slow, soothing rhythm in her ear and Root focuses on her breathing pattern to match it. She continues to do so even as the syringe pierces her sensitive skin, up until the needle finally has retreated from her arm. When the hacker opens her eyes once again, Shaw is taping a small square of gauze on the injection site, a pointless measure seeing as there is barely a drop of blood spilled.

 

“Am I high, or do you actually have good bed side manners, Shaw?” She questions after one of Sameen’s fingers slowly brushes down her arm. Root lets her head rest against the wall behind her, her sleepy eyes barely opened, a sad smile wavering on her face.

 

Shaw knows she would normally roll her eyes or say something mean just to deny her ever being nice. This time, perhaps because she’s tired, or because she discerns the beginning of Root’s intoxicated buzz, she doesn’t feel like it. She raises her bottle of whiskey, “it’s the alcohol.”

 

“Hm, drinking makes you soft,” Root rolls the words around her tongue, her hand snaking her way up Sameen’s thigh.

 

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Shaw opposes, grabbing the adventurous hand and placing two fingers on the wrist. As she mentally counts the heartbeats, she runs her eyes on Root, remarking her erratic breathing, her difficulty to remain conscious. She knows she hasn’t miscalculated the dosage of the methadone, yet can’t help but worry. When she’s finally convinced there is nothing wrong with her patient, she shoves the orange juice back into Root’s hands. “What did Control want from you?”

 

Root smiles like a kid and hides behind her glass when she replies absently, “she had questions.”

 

“What kind of questions?” Shaw insists, ignoring the hacker’s grimace after she takes another sip.

 

“Questions without answers,” Root cryptically says, eyes closing once again. “I’m cold,” she complains, though she could easily pull the sheets tangled on her legs to cover herself more.

 

Shaw leaves her side to open a nearby closet, taking out fresh bed sheets. “Yeah, well get used to it, ‘cause this is only beginning,” she announces, throwing a spare blanket towards the bed. Despite her dilated pupils and slowed reflexes, Root catches it in one smooth motion, smiling.

 

“I can see the war coming,” the hacker starts, suddenly serious even as she wraps herself deeper in the covers. “It’s all over the horizon, like a storm,” she continues, settling between the sheets, cocooned in Shaw’s bed as if she belonged there. “It’s inevitable.”

 

Shaw swallows hardly, busying herself with creating a makeshift bed out of her couch. She doesn’t like to think about fate and inevitable catastrophes, doesn’t believe in it really, but suddenly her loft seems so very silent, and empty.

 

“Sameen?”

 

Her eyes find Root’s, but she doesn’t say anything. The hacker moves deeper in the covers of the bed, lying down in strange diagonal amongst Shaw’s sheets.

 

“She says she wants to save you.”

 

For once, the agent would really like to be angry. She’d enjoy getting mad at this cryptic bullshit Root always spits out instead of the truth. It would be so much simpler; to want to punch her and lock her up again, lose the key and forget the hacker ever existed. Instead, Sameen worries. She shrugs.

 

“And what about you,” she questions as she turns her back again, fingers slipping between the cushions, pushing the sheets as far as she can.

 

“I want to save you too.”

 

Sameen doesn’t have the heart to tell Root that it isn’t what she had meant.

 

[...]

 

 

“So, no new numbers then?”

 

Shaw’s deep voice barely reaches her through slumber but still, it wakes her up. Root’s head, heavy against the pillow, hurts as if crushed by invisible giants. She moves slightly, muscles aching as they comply, crawling under the sheets as she lifts her head enough to spy on Sameen’s phone conversation.

 

Eyes still closed, she hears some quiet ruffle coming from the other end of the loft. “Yeah, I guess that’s good news,” Shaw continues, the end of her sentence punctuated by the sound of the toaster oven going off. “For your information Finch, I do have a life.”

 

Root ignores the hunger in her own stomach, absorbed as she is by the foreign sounds of Sameen’s domestic life; drawers opening and closing, the clatter of utensils, knife buttering up toasts. When her head drops down on the pillow, she can’t hear the familiar noises anymore; Control’s courtesy. The smell of burnt bread invades her nostrils and leaves her slightly nauseous.

 

“Well I can take care of Bear...” Shaw suggests, and it brings a smile to Root’s face, this surprisingly child-like wish, well hidden under the agent’s faked indifference. It soothes the nausea instantly, or perhaps that’s simply because the hacker has opened her eyes. From the warmth of the bed, she admires Sameen, currently standing behind the kitchen counter, a cell phone locked in place between her shoulder and her ear. After she closes a peanut butter jar, the agent absently sucks on the tip of her fingers. As if she had noticed Root’s spiked interest in her, Shaw lifts her eyes and immediately meets the hacker’s stare.

 

“Alright, well, I gotta go,” the brunette rushes her interlocutor abruptly. “Yeah, if I hear from her, you’ll be the first to know.”

 

As soon as Sameen disconnects the call, Root pushes herself up, turning around on her back and resting on her elbows. Despite a tired grin on her face and wild bed hair, she taunts; “well, look who’s being a pretty little liar this morning.”

 

Shaw rolls her eyes and puffs. “Because I didn’t tell Finch you were here? Please.”

 

Root laughs before she pushes herself further up so that she’s sitting on the bed, her back resting against the wall. She brings her knees close to her body and wraps her arms around them, waiting a beat before she finally asks; “how is he?”

 

“Finch?” Shaw questions as she grabs her plate from the counter top. She returns to the main room and crashes on the couch, breakfast on her lap. She takes a bite from a peanut buttered toast right after she answers; “he’s okay I guess.”

 

Root rushes a hand through her hair, but not fast enough to hide the fact that she’s unwillingly shaking like a leaf. Shaw’s trained eyes notice that the hacker is sweating less profusely than the previous night and seems to have regained some colors on her cheeks. In better shape than she was when she appeared hours ago, but still far from being back to normal, Shaw musters – though she wouldn’t be able to say just how _normal_ Root could ever be.

 

“I should go”, the hacker announces, yet she’s not moving.

 

Shaw hastily swallows the bite she had just taken and raises a brow. “Where do you think you’re going exactly?”

 

Her voice lingers, an unspoken threat underneath the words.

 

“Am I your prisoner, Shaw?” Root smirks, putting her wrists together in front of her. “Maybe you should handcuff me; you know we’d both enjoy it.”

 

Sameen purposefully ignores her and resumes eating her breakfast. After a few seconds, Root lets her hands fall down, fingers absently toying with the sheets.

 

“Before I passed out, the Machine told me the bank manager was found dead in a closet,” Root explains. “She was murdered before you even showed up at the bank.”

 

The brunette frowns. “So... who was the woman in the vault with Arthur and Finch?”

 

“That’s what I need to find out.” Root answers when she pulls herself up, but as soon as she stands, she swoons. Feeling weak, she places a hand against the wall and closes her eyes, dizzy as if the whole room was suddenly spinning out of control.

 

“Good luck with that,” Shaw mocks, but nonetheless moves her plate aside, ready to jump up and catch Root if she does collapse. “As much as I can’t wait for you to leave, I don’t think you’re going to run out the door anytime soon.”

 

“I’m useless here,” Root states angrily, sighing with frustration before she opens her eyes again. She breathes down deeply, gathering her strength, then taking a few cautious steps towards the bay window.

 

“Seems to me you’ll be useless out there too,” Shaw continues, still staring at her from the couch.

 

Root doesn’t turn around, but Sameen can hear her smile; “I love your pep talks.”

 

“Anytime,” the brunette replies, returning her attention to her breakfast. After a few bites, she lifts her eyes to see that the hacker still hasn’t moved. “You stink, by the way.”

 

It takes a moment before Root abandons her post by the window. She takes one whiff at her clothes and winces. “Care if I use your shower?”

 

Not granting her an answer, Shaw leaves the hacker alone in her living room. Seconds later, Root hears a door opening and closing before Sameen returns, a clean towel in hand, which she carelessly throws at Root. “Down the corridor, first door on your left. Try not to drown.”

 

“Hm, I really wouldn’t mind you performing CPR on me, Sameen.”

 

“And I really wouldn’t mind cracking a few of your ribs.”

 

Root flashes a smile before making her way towards the bathroom, hand leaning on the wall for support. It’s only when she’s closed the door behind her that she notices how quiet everything is. She reaches for her ear, ready to take off her earpiece, and realises it isn’t there anymore. The hacker frowns as she considers returning to the living room to confront Sameen about it. She hesitates only a second before turning on the faucets instead, too exhausted to walk down the corridor again.

 

When she’s finally managed to get in the warm shower, she closes her eyes again, breathing deeply. Somehow, the Machine’s absence isn’t as scary as it had been, only hours earlier, in the cage. The silence is less threatening with the sound of the water falling all around her, and her aching muscles progressively relax under the heat, fatigue weighting down on her even though she feels strangely reenergised.

 

When Root steps out of the shower, she notices that a stack of clean clothes has just appeared, neatly folded beside the sink, with an unused toothbrush placed on top. She smiles, delicately running a finger on the fabric before her hunger returns, stronger than before.

 

After putting on a pair of black sweatpants and a t-shirt of the same color – both smelling like Shaw, Root happily notices – she walks out of the warmth of the bathroom. The change of temperature weakens her balance and once again, she finds herself leaning against the wall, lightheaded.

 

When she finally reaches the living room, Shaw helps her to the couch without a word, then brings her a glass of water.

 

“Do you have a computer?” Root questions before she empties the glass.

 

Shaw laughs as she returns to the kitchen. “You think if I did have a computer, I’d actually let you use it?”

 

“Yes, I think you would,” Root replies, serious despite the fact that she undoubtedly remembers coming to Shaw’s apartment with a cell phone and an earpiece, and that both are now nowhere to be seen.

 

“Well, I don’t.”

 

“Who doesn’t have a computer?” Shaw shrugs, and Root rolls her eyes. “Fine. Give me your phone then.”

 

“Nope,” the brunette answers, indifferent. She grabs an apple from the counter and throws it at Root who barely manages to catch the fruit, then takes one for herself. “Finch is searching for the fake bank manager’s identity. We’ll know when he finds something.”

 

Disappointment settles in Root’s guts. “You told him I was here?”

 

“Said you called me with some news.”

 

A smirk appears on the hacker’s face. “Sameen, Sameen,” she teases, leaving the comfort of the couch to join the brunette in the other part of the loft. “I knew you wanted to keep me all to yourself.”

 

“Finch is already going crazy with John being AWOL,” Shaw explains, lifting herself to sit on the counter top. “Plus he’s taking care of Arthur until he can send him to Canada so, I really don’t think he needs your charming company right now.”

 

Root throws her apple from one hand to the other, toying around before she walks towards Sameen, unconvinced. “Sound reasoning, but I don’t think you’re telling me everything, Shaw,” she smiles knowingly as she settles between the agent’s knees, leaning on the counter and placing the fruit back with the others. “Admit it, you just like having me here,” she coos, placing a hand on each side of Shaw.

 

In their current position, Sameen is taller than the hacker, and Root has to step up on her toes to lean in. Before she can make her move, the agent abruptly steps down from her seat, causing her body to press hard into Root, who refuses to move despite Sameen’s obvious attempt at intimidation. She claws at Shaw’s clothes, securing her balance by pulling herself even closer.

 

The agent’s eyes leave Root’s to glimpse at her mouth for only a second, but it is enough for the hacker to notice. She leans in, but before her lips reach Sameen’s, a warm hand cups her face and pushes her away slightly.

 

“Don’t,” Shaw warns.

 

Root steps back, faking a smile to hide her disappointment. “I wasn’t doing anything,” she objects.

 

“You were going to kiss me.”

 

“Maybe,” Root smirks, raising one hand to reveal Shaw’s cell phone. “But maybe not.”

 

Obviously proud of herself, the hacker gleams as she returns to the living room, already dialing. Shaw recovers from her surprise quickly, but too late to stop Root from hitting the call button. She frowns, crossing her arms as she stares at the brunette disapprovingly.

 

“I wish you’d listened, Harold,” Root immediately scolds her interlocutor when the call gets picked up. “We were supposed to help Claypool together.”

 

Shaw didn’t know who she was expecting the hacker to call exactly, but it clearly wasn’t Finch.

 

“Maybe then the drives wouldn’t have fallen into the wrong hands,” the hacker continues. Sameen hears her boss’s voice through the phone, but not nearly loud enough to understand what he is answering. She only hears Root’s side of the conversation, her condescending tone; “and it’s my problem now.”

 

The hacker pauses again, and her facial expression rapidly changes from annoyed to sad. She moves further into the living room, her steps unsteady now that she isn’t leaning on anything. “Please, put Arthur on the phone.”

 

Sameen can only imagine how Finch must be as surprised as she is by the request.

 

“The Machine has something for you,” she speaks almost compassionately, and Shaw deduces that she isn’t talking to Harold anymore. “To send you on your way.”

 

When Root hangs up a few seconds later, the agent only waits a beat before she asks, “what was it? Arthur’s gift?”

 

“Memories,” Root answers cryptically before she moves away again, reaching the bay window, and although she looks like she’s about ready to pass out, this time Shaw keeps her distance.

 

The agent understands briefly what the Machine is giving Arthur – a chance to remember his wife before he died; one last glimpse of the happiness they once shared together. She wonders vaguely what will be her own parting gift, when her number finally comes up.

 

In front of her, Root has turned around, a soft smile lighting up her eyes as she reaches towards Shaw, offering her the cell phone back.

 

“Thank you, Sameen.”

 

 

[...]

 

 

“Are you nearly done?” Shaw asks, bothered.

 

Beside her, Root’s left foot has been shaking for over ten minutes, and the constant movement has been driving Sameen mad.

 

“What?”

 

The hacker lifts her eyes from her book and blinks, obviously unaware, but the movement stops nonetheless. With a sigh, Shaw ignores her uninvited guest and returns her attention towards her disassembled rifle.

 

“Can’t you open a window or something?” Root suggests for the third time, eyes squinting from the solvent’s strong smell. She waits for an answer, attentively staring as Sameen pushes the cleaning rod down the barrel. When she realises the agent has no intention of answering her request, the hacker rolls her eyes and returns to her reading.

 

She misses the covert smile that flashes on Shaw’s face then. It is, however, short lived; the smirk disappears as soon as Root’s foot starts shaking again. Dropping the cleaning rod and the gun part on the living room table, the agent sighs loudly and grabs a wet cloth.

 

“How long are you staying here anyway?”

 

Her obvious annoyance doesn’t deter Root, who closes her book slowly before she turns to look at Shaw. “As my doctor, you should be the one to tell me,” she gleams.

 

“I’m not your doctor,” Shaw reminds her, “and I’m pretty sure the Machine has already settled on a date.”

 

Root watches carefully as Sameen washes her hands and upper arms with a wet cloth, pressing the fabric down her skin so hard that it reddens. Water sticks to it, catching the sunlight every now and then, underlining her firm muscles. Shaw doesn’t acknowledge the hacker’s stare, yet there is a slight tension forming in her jaw that Root believes is caused by her, and it makes her smile.

 

“Tomorrow,” the brunette finally answers, with a voice somehow both sad and hopeful.

 

Sameen throws the cloth back into the soapy water it came from and takes another towel to dry off. “Do you know where you’re going?”

 

“No,” Root shrugs, indifferent, although one of her fingers absently runs down the scar behind her ear.

 

When her eyes meet Shaw’s again, she stops, throwing one look down in apology – Sameen has warned her several times already not to touch her wounds and simply let them heal, but Root finds herself fascinated by them and she often ends up caressing them lightly, despite her best intentions.

 

“Does it ever bother you?” Shaw asks, and for a rare, brief moment the hacker appears confused. Still, instead of revelling in the small victory, Sameen returns her eyes to the twisted towel in her hands. “Not knowing.”

 

Beside her, Root shifts. “No.”

 

The answer lingers in silence for a while as Shaw ponders whether it was honest or not.

 

“That’s good,” the agent continues, face unchanged, but Root feels something different in the air, as if the conversation had become private, intimate almost. “This line of work... asking questions gets you killed.”

 

There’s a ghost in Sameen’s living room and Root knows its name, but she refuses to speak it. Refuses to challenge the dead.

 

“If I didn’t know better,” she teases, though it lacks her usual glee, “I’d think you care if I live or die.”

 

Shaw shrugs and tosses the towel aside, and Root knows the discussion is over. She smiles with a strange relief until Sameen speaks again. “Time for your shot.”

 

“Oh,” the hacker’s muscles tense up even as she tries to ignore the discomfort in her stomach.

 

Shaw rolls her eyes while she rises to her feet, going to grab her med kit before she positions herself in front of Root, carelessly sitting on the living room table. “Stop it.”

 

“Stop what?”

 

“You’re already cringing,” Shaw accuses, “and I didn’t even take out the syringe yet.”

 

Root glares and her foot involuntarily starts shaking again, betraying her nervousness despite her best attempts at relaxation. Without a word, Shaw places a firm hand on the hacker’s ankle, the warm pressure bringing it to a stop. She raises her eyes and plants a look in Root’s, grounding her before she returns to the shot’s preparation. The stare lasts only a few seconds, but its effects go on a bit longer, as the hacker focuses on her breathing.

 

Root forgets all of that as soon as Sameen finishes swiping the antiseptic. She takes in a ragged breath when the needle plunges into her skin, and then stops breathing altogether. Shaw notices the change, yet she doesn’t say anything, focused on ending it as soon as possible. Once the syringe is emptied, she pulls it out and sticks another patch of gauze on the injection site, her thumb brushing softly over Root’s upper arm like a silent apology.

 

Then, Sameen observes the changes she has come to expect; Root’s pupils dilating, muscles relaxing, her breathing growing deeper. In one swift motion, she takes a hold of the hacker’s wrist and mentally counts the heartbeats. All the while, Root allows her to work in silence, a strange routine settled in between them. When the agent finally lets go of her limb, however, the hacker protests with a small whimper.

 

“Don’t go weird on me,” Shaw threatens, and the brunette replies with a sleepy smile.

 

Through a hazed stare, Root observes while Sameen disposes of the needle, carefully replacing every supply back into its place in her homemade med kit. Still, when Shaw finally returns to her side, she finds the hacker fast asleep, head resting on the couch’s arm.

 

Despite her curled up position, Root’s legs cross over the cushions and onto Sameen’s side. The agent hesitates briefly before she sits down on the edge, elbows resting on her knees as she considers picking up the task of cleaning her disassembled firearm. The sudden shift seemingly awakes Root, who starts pulling up her legs to make space for Shaw. When a hand encircles her ankle, the hacker stops, her eyes blinking in confusion until Sameen pulls the limb towards her slightly, allowing the brunette’s legs to return to a more comfortable position.

 

With Root’s feet cosily settled against her lower back, Sameen cleans her rifle, unconsciously suppressing a smile.

 

 

[...]

 

 

Another cold wave rushes over Root from the toes up and seizes her lungs into a rigid stupor. In her ears, the Machine beeps Morse code like hammer on nails and spells out _sorry_ , _sorry_ , _sorry_ ; when the hacker tries to answer, she chokes violently. Surrounded by darkness she finds herself unable to remember her own name, how long she has been there or why she has come to this awful place.

 

At once, all sounds vanish in one flash, as with the snap of divine fingers, and she can finally cry out. A firm grip settles then on her upper arm, strong fingers holding her in place hard enough that she already feels the bruises forming under her skin.

 

It’s only after she throws the punch, after the pain sears through her knuckles that Root wakes up, panting and confused, with a smirking Shaw gleaming over her head.

 

“Still got some kick in ya, uh?”

 

Hovering above her, Sameen runs two fingers against her collarbone, soothing the skin where Root’s fist just crashed. She looks more amused than pissed, which the hacker would take as a good sign if she wasn’t baffled by the whole situation.

 

“It’s so dark,” she questions with a raspy voice.

 

“Yeah, it’s one a.m.” Shaw explains as she sits down on the couch beside Root. “You slept all evening.”

 

With her heart still trying to beat its way out of her chest, Root crawls slowly on the cushion, curling up at one end and letting her upper body rest on the couch’s arm. There, she blinks, staring at the darkness as if something dangerous was about to emerge from the shadows. When her hand absently returns to fondle with her damaged ear, Shaw slaps her arm away.

 

Root rushes a nervous hand through her hair. “Did you wake me up?”

 

Shaw hesitates only a second before she answers, mindfully avoiding the subject of Root’s nightmares. “Well I need my beauty sleep, princess, and you’re on my bed,” she jokes, rising to her feet and offering a hand to Root.

 

“No, I was on your couch,” the hacker contradicts, accepting the help off the couch nonetheless. “You could’ve slept in your bed.”

 

“You need to rest more than I do,” Shaw replies, moving out of the way as Root laboriously crosses the room. “Besides, I don’t mind sleeping on the couch; it’s comfortable too.”

 

“My neck and back say otherwise,” the hacker complains when she finally settles on the bed. She’s still shaking from the nightmare and her muscles are hurting more than they were when she had initially went to sleep – the drugs have clearly wore off, and she fights her desire to ask for another dose. She hides under the covers. “Look, I promise not to cuddle or punch you in your sleep,” Root smiles, moving to one side of the bed.

 

When Shaw comes to grab her pillow, the hacker takes a hold of it as well. She wipes the smirk off her face as she insists; “you don’t have a back-up anymore, Shaw. What happens when the next number comes and you’re not rested enough?”

 

The agent doesn’t answer, only stares, but the hacker notes the slight hesitation in the way she shifts from one foot to the other.

 

“What is it?” Root asks, and she feels her stomach tightening in anticipation.

 

Shaw rolls her eyes and sighs. “You’re on my side.”

 

“Oh, we have sides now?” Root teases, but moves to the right nonetheless.

 

“If you try anything,” Sameen starts, threatening, as she pulls up the sheets and slips in beside the hacker.

 

“You’ll kill me, I know,” Root completes, a wide grin stuck on her face.

 

The next morning, when Shaw wakes up, she finds the bed empty, and her cell phone long gone. She winces, not having to search the rest of the apartment to know that the hacker has given her the slip. On the other pillow beside her rests a scribbled handwritten note; _Thank you, Sameen. I’ll see you when I see you_.

 

Before she leaves for her morning jog, Shaw places it on her settee, and with the sunrise, Gen’s Order of Lenin casts on the card a little round shadow, dangling over the words.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is parts 6 to 11 of _Aletheia / Take Cover_ on Tumblr. Since almost each segment refers to a particular episode, I've added the names of each episode, so you don't get too confused.

[ _4C_ ]

 

A cold darkness has settled in her apartment while she was out on the job, and Shaw wonders once again if there’s something wrong with the heating in her building. She doesn’t have much time to investigate, however, as her phone relentlessly insists on ringing, requiring her attention.

 

She mechanically locks the door as she searches her coat pocket for the device, wondering what Finch could possibly want from her – after what he’s asked her to do earlier today, she’s surprised he would find the courage. She’s already found a few unkind words to tell him when she notices the name appearing on the smartphone’s screen.

 

 _Sameen Shaw calling_ , it reads, and she frowns _._

 

Despite her furious desire to be left alone, she accepts the call, intrigued. She places the device near her ear but refuses to speak, waiting for the caller to make the first move.

 

“Good morning Sameen,” Root’s chipper voice hardly reaches her through all the parasites on the line, and the loud background noises aren’t helping either.

 

Shaw cringes; it’s been a long day and the last thing she wants is to be bothered by an intrusive lunatic. Still, she takes off her coat with a sigh and walks to her fridge, grabbing herself a cold beer as if all was well and normal.

 

“Still got my phone, uh?” she replies, relaxing slightly as she sets the device between her shoulder and her ear, opening the bottle in one swift movement. She then proceeds to the couch where she slumps down, with the firm resolve of refusing whatever help Root is about to ask of her. “Oh, and it’s far from being morning.”

 

“It is here,” the hacker answers joyfully, and even though the reception is bad Shaw can hear her gleaming smile. “So, how’s our mutual friend?”

 

Sameen frowns, wondering if somehow Root is asking about John and his trouble on his plane to Italy, but she doesn’t see why she’d call him _a mutual friend_. A ‘big lug’, ‘the watchdog’, yes. A mutual friend? Not so much.

 

On the other end of the phone, she hears multiple cars honking in the background, and then someone speaking something that sounds like Japanese. When she hears Root seemingly reply to the stranger in the same language, she takes a minute to gaze around her apartment, wondering if somehow, someone has managed to slip her something, at the coffee shop. She pulls the phone away from her ear, questioning the screen as if searching for some clue before she places it back, waiting to see if Root will clarify her question eventually.

 

“Hersh,” the hacker offers after sharing a few more incomprehensible words with someone else, “I hear you paid him a visit.”

 

Shaw’s smug smile gets buried into her beer as she gulps down a few mouthfuls. When Harold had asked her to track down her former employer, she had mostly been angry that he would put her in such a precarious situation. However, now that she had successfully drugged and questioned the man who had taught her all there was to know about being a good agent, she felt much better about the whole thing. Proud, even. “Yeah, I had a little chat with him.”

 

“But scopolamine, Shaw? Such a nice touch,” the background noise diminishes greatly and from the sudden quiet Sameen can only imagine that Root has entered a building, somewhere on the other side of the planet. “Very old school; I do like your style.”

 

Maybe it’s the beer, or perhaps it’s because she outwitted her former employer only an hour ago and survived, but Shaw is in enough of a good mood to genuinely smile. “Really? And what would a computer nerd like you know about the classics?”

 

There’s another moment of silence and for a second Shaw wonders if the line has cut, until she hears someone – a young man? – speaking in Japanese again. Root answers something back, evidently a bit ruder than before, and then a door closes. She wonders, not for the first time since the beginning of the call, where the hacker actually is.

 

“Who’s your friend?” Shaw asks, suddenly curious about what Root it up to, and remembering that she still doesn’t know why she’s calling in the first place.

 

“Daizo,” Root answers as if it was obvious, and somehow Shaw knows she won’t get anything more out of her.

 

The agent sighs. “Why are you calling me, Root?”

 

There’s only static on the line and Shaw feels a strange mixture of dread and expectation building up inside her.

 

“I wanted to kill him,” Root finally replies, although it’s not exactly an answer.

 

“Daizo?” Shaw tries to understand, and when she listens carefully she can hear someone typing furiously on a keyboard, but she can’t be sure it’s Root.

 

“Hersh,” the hacker corrects, and Sameen can almost hear her rolling her eyes. “He tried to kill me, you know.”

 

Shaw vaguely recalls Finch mentioning that the ISA had sent someone after Root, a few weeks after they had sent her into that psych ward off town. She doesn’t remember him saying it was Hersh though, but she isn’t surprised he would withhold that information from her: Finch has as many trust issues as she does. Besides, he was probably right not to mention her former boss to her back then; she would have easily used a catatonic Root as bait for her own revenge, and that might not have ended as well for the three of them.

 

“I wanted to kill him too,” she confesses then, although she doesn’t really know why they are talking about this. When she closes her eyes she can see his sad look while he asked if she was being treated well – as if he was worried about her. _You were a good operator_ , she remembers, _sorry Shaw_.

 

She suddenly realises that it wasn’t her safety Harold was worried about, when he sent her after Hersh. It was about walking up to the line, to that man who had killed her in the middle of the street, and then turning back. It was about her, leaving him breathing behind.

 

She had pitied Hersh on her way back home, but now that she knows he had been the one going after Root, she feels her anger rising again. When Finch decided to commit the hacker to that institution, she was broken and weak. She was nothing, and the ISA still considered her a threat. She blames the beer for her sudden resentment and gulps down another mouthful, refusing to think of meaningless things like emotions, her past, and doing the right thing. It had never brought her anything good to dwell on those anyway.

 

“Why didn’t you?” Root questions, and the typing stops. “Why did you let him live?”

 

“I’m not sure. Finch is really uptight about the whole ‘killing people’ thing,” she answers honestly, much to her own surprise. There is only static on the line to thank her for it. She considers saying something about his watered eyes, about Hersh’s worry. _Are they treating you okay?_ And then quickly changes her mind. “What about you?”

 

Root hangs back a moment before she speaks. “The Machine told me She didn’t want him dead.”

 

There’s a comfortable silence that settles then, one that would be even better if they weren’t on the phone, which, Shaw realizes, would imply Root actually being present, and she doesn’t know how to feel about that. She thinks of the hacker sharing a beer with her, sitting cross-legged on her couch, and although the thought is very strange and odd, it’s not all that frustrating. She remembers Root sleeping beside her as she cleans her gun, pictures her like some sort of stray cat that just wanders into her life from time to time and suddenly the silence isn’t comfortable anymore. It’s heavy and suffocating.

 

“Root?”

 

“Hm?” the hacker hums, evidently busying herself with something else.

 

“Why are you calling me?”

 

“I don’t know, Shaw,” she starts out seriously, but flat out changes her tone midway. “I guess I missed you.”

 

Her voice is as flirty and mocking as it always is, but Shaw fears the truth behind it.

 

“Well I certainly didn’t,” she states, hesitating only for a few seconds before she hangs up.

 

[ _Provenance_ ]

 

 

Over her cup of coffee, Sameen looks at her phone and sighs. At the other end of the kitchen table, Kelly offers a small smile of support, although she doesn’t know what for. Shaw won’t say; she repeated “it’s complicated” enough time for the gymnast to give up, and now they sit in silence. Lin looks everywhere, from the warm cup in her hand to the window that opens up on the alley, and Sameen stares at her device like it’s trying to eat her alive.

 

She doesn’t know why she offered. The team was spread pretty thin between tasks for the heist, with a short timetable and the life of a child hanging in the balance. So when Harold mentioned he had met with another dead end trying to find Kelly’s daughter, she had naturally suggested the first thing that came to mind. Now that she actually has to go through with it, though, she wonders how Finch ended up welcoming her initiative so easily, and blames him a little. Still, the look of sheer surprise on his and John’s face had been worth it, and she grins when she pictures it again.

 

Shaw finally dials her own phone number – the previous one, the one Root stole on her way out after her free detoxification at Shaw’s, the one Sameen hasn’t got disconnected yet because she’s been busy and she just doesn’t care about stuff like that and shouldn’t Finch take care of things like that anyway? After sixty seconds, the call doesn’t get picked up, but the line cuts off automatically.

 

The absence of voicemail doesn’t surprise her at all, but she had strongly expected the hacker to answer right away. She frowns, ignores Kelly’s concerned stare and dials again. Second after second, her anger grows. She pictures her phone, ringing or vibrating in the bottom of a garbage can somewhere half-way across the world and she closes her fists. She barely breathes as she thinks of how she has dealt with Root’s shit for days only to have her property stolen. She doesn’t care much about the phone, but Shaw had expected _something_ in return – something like at least picking up when she calls for help.

 

Not that she needs Root’s help.

 

The line cuts automatically once again, and Shaw is about to throw her phone against the wall when it suddenly rings.

 

“What did you do with my phone?” Shaw snaps loudly when she answers, and Kelly lifts her eyes in surprise but Shaw ignores her. She leaves the gymnast alone at her table and walks in the living room, too angry to stay still.

 

“I have it with me,” a confused Root answers, a bit taken aback.

 

“If you did have it with you,” Shaw starts, and she struggles to keep her angered voice steady as she’s still aware that Kelly can easily listen in on the conversation, despite her relocation into another room. “Then why didn’t you pick up?”

 

There’s a short silence on the line before Root admits; “it was on the wrong side.” Shaw frowns for a few seconds before she understands.

 

“Oh,” she absently switches the device from one ear to the other. She listens to the sounds at the other end, trying to decipher some clue in the background as to where the hacker is. “Yeah, how’s that healing?”

 

“It’s fine,” Shaw can hear her annoyance even through the static.

 

“Well don’t fiddle with it,” the agent warns. She misses Kelly’s smirk, sitting at the kitchen table; as if she has just realised something out of the exchange. “I told you to leave it alone.”

 

“And I am,” Root argues, but Shaw knows from her voice that she’s lying. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure of speaking with you, Sameen?”

 

The agent rolls her eyes at the way Root’s voice drops when she speaks her name. “There’s something I need – I mean we,” Shaw corrects herself quickly, glad that she has caught the mistake in time to avoid another flirty line from the hacker. “For a number,” she has the decency to lower her voice so that the gymnast doesn’t hear.

 

“An address in Prague,” Root replies and it takes all of Shaw’s strength not to hang up right there, annoyed down to her core by the hacker’s smugness and her stupid software omniscience.

 

“Do you have it?” Shaw doesn’t bother asking how she knows what she knows. She’s long accepted already that the hacker is linked to the Machine almost in permanence, and that she’ll never understand exactly how because every time Finch or Root tries to explain, she ends up wanting to hit someone. Usually Root.

 

“You can tell Jaoi that her child hasn’t been harmed,” Root answers, obviously distracted by something. “You want to fly under what alias?”

 

Shaw smiles at the attention, kicking the living room carpet with the tip of her shoe as she responds; “John’s the one who’s going.”

 

“Oh,” Root appears almost disappointed. Shaw hears her typing something. “I’ll text Finch the address, then.”

 

“Wait, were you setting me up a flight?” Her smirk deepens even though she feels Kelly’s eyes on her. The gymnast has left the kitchen and now leans against the wall separating both rooms, arms crossed, a curious grin on her face.

 

“Well I hear you’re good with children,” Root jokes, evidently trying to poke fun at her. It only reminds Shaw of Gen, and the souvenir erases whatever frustration the agent still has left.

 

“I have my moments,” Sameen answers, smiling. Just as she’s about to hang up, she stops herself. “Root?”

 

There’s a hesitation at the other end of the line, “yeah?”

 

“Thanks.”

 

She disconnects the call and turns around, fiddling with the phone in her hands. “We’ve got an address,” she offers, and notices how Kelly’s traits seem to relax slightly at the news.

 

“Good,” the gymnast nods, heading back towards the kitchen. She turns around after a few steps. “Thank your girlfriend for me next time the next time you see her.”

 

[...]

 

Sameen’s head is pounding and the early rising sun drills into it, too bright for her sore eyes. She reaches for her phone on the nightstand, knowing instinctively that the device is responsible for her brutal awakening. She squints when she sees the notification for one new text message and sits upright. Blinking a few times to clear her vision, she feels the remnants of scotch in her breath when she yawns.

 

On her phone, from an unknown number, she reads; _How’s the kid?_

 

Somehow, even though she is thoroughly hangover and still half-asleep, she knows it’s coming from Root. A familiar annoyance rises within her then, when she thinks that she has been awakened – _again_ – by the hacker. She doesn’t feel like responding, but she doesn’t want to risk Root getting impatient and actually calling her.

 

 _Ask the machine_ , she angrily types back.

 

Satisfied, she’s about to slip into her bed sheets again when the phone buzzes once more. _I’m asking you._

 

“Yeah, I can see that,” Sameen complains to no one. She sighs when she hits the _Send_ button. _OK._ _With her mom_.

 

She blinks at the screen a few times, expecting something like a thank you or another question, but it never comes. It’s not exactly surprising, but she finds it bothers her anyway. She frowns as she looks at the time, realising that she managed to sleep only twenty minutes before she was awakened by Root, and her frustration doubles.

 

She forces herself to stand and stumbles towards the kitchen, mind set on having a few glasses of water, since she obviously forgot to rehydrate her body before going to bed. She curses her night out with the boys, Finch’s good taste in hard liquors and Fusco’s stupid drinking game.

 

In the end, though, her thoughts return to Root. Root and her untimely arrivals, Root and her mysterious missions, Root and her upcoming war she keeps warning them about without actually giving them any intel. Root travelling the world with Shaw’s phone in her pocket, probably making long distance calls too, just to piss her off.

 

She’s not entirely certain of who called who, when Root picks up the call.

 

“Shaw?” Root sounds concerned, and far away. “What’s going on?”

 

“I was about to ask you the same,” Sameen answers. From what she can glimpse from the background noise at the other hand, the hacker is in a car, and she’s got the hazard lights on. The constant clicking sounds feel familiar and Shaw smiles like she’s just found a clue about some great mystery.

 

“I’m not sure I understand,” the hacker replies before saying something to someone else. At least, Shaw believes she’s addressing another person, because Root uses a gentler tone and another language.

 

Sameen frowns. “Since when do you speak Japanese?”

 

“The Machine translates for me,” the hacker explains with a strained tone. “She says your alcohol levels are high... is everything okay?”

 

“We had a few drinks,” Shaw replies, annoyed, but it does remind her that she still hasn’t drunk water yet, so maybe the hacker’s better half is right, and she did have a bit too much scotch.

 

“Who’s we?” Root asks innocently, but she seems troubled. Almost distant.

 

“The team,” Shaw answers with a shrug, though no one is there to see her. There’s a silence on the line as she pours herself a glass of water and drinks half of it. “Are you still there?”

 

Root sighs loudly, and Sameen can almost hear her pinch her nose. “Yeah. Why are you calling me?”

 

Shaw opens the faucet once again, letting the water run on her fingers as she waits for the right temperature. “I’m not sure.”

 

“Well I’m very flattered by you drunk-dialing me,” Root starts, though she sounds more angry than flirty, “but I really have to go now.”

 

Before she has time to hang up, Shaw blurts out at the last second, “I wanted to know what’s going on.”

 

“What’s going on with what?” the hacker presses, annoyed. When the agent doesn’t reply as quickly as she’d like, she adds an irritated “Shaw?” through gritted teeth.

 

“With you,” Sameen finally speaks once she’s finished downing her second glass of water. “And the Machine.”

 

There’s only static on the line, but Shaw can hear Root’s erratic breathing and a hiss of pain. “Now’s not really the time to have that conversation.”

 

“Why not?” Shaw pushes, suddenly realising that there is something very wrong in Root’s voice.

 

“Because you’re drunk and I’m busy,” the hacker replies impatiently, and then Sameen hears what she can only imagine are Japanese curses. “So why don’t you just ask Harold?”

 

A riled up Root disconnects the call and an infuriated Shaw texts her back.

 

_I was asking you._

 

[ _Last Call_ ]

 

Root’s heart skips a beat when her phone rings, and her hair is still dripping on her shoulders as she picks up the call, anxious.

 

“Were you hurt?”

 

She fully expected the Machine, rushing instructions despite her previous order for a night of rest. What she hears instead is Sameen’s voice, and so she hesitates. “What?”

 

“When I called you the other day,” Shaw explains, although she sounds annoyed, as if Root should’ve known what she was talking about. “Were you hurt?”

 

The hacker lets out a little sigh as she ponders whether to tell the truth or not. She gazes at herself in the bathroom mirror and sees the scar, fresh and red across her ribs. “I had just been shot, yes.”

 

She thinks she can actually hear Shaw wincing. “But you didn’t tell me.”

 

“You didn’t need to know,” Root averts her eyes, suddenly feeling like she should be wearing something, anything, and not just a towel wrapped around her.

 

“I’m so tired of this bullshit from all of you,” Shaw states angrily, and the hacker smiles sadly. Or course this call isn’t about her; not really. It never would be.

 

“What bullshit?” She asks as she returns to her hotel’s bedroom. Jamming the phone between her ear and her shoulder, she puts on some pants, waiting for Shaw to vent.

 

“The whole ‘you don’t need to know’ bullshit,” the agent starts. “I get it from Harold, and then I get it from you.” Shaw sighs, “and then there’s John rushing into action like an amateur, like nothing’s ever going to kill him.”

 

Root can just picture Sameen rolling her eyes, and it warms her up a bit, but not enough to show any real concern. “What happened to ‘asking questions gets you killed’?”

 

When Shaw doesn’t answer, she twists her wet curls around her fingers nervously, and bends her own rules. “Are you okay, Sam?”

 

“I’m angry,” she groans.

 

“I can hear that,” the hacker laughs a bit, uncomfortable. She doesn’t really know what to do with this Sameen that actually _calls_ her, and not only for information. She calls _her_ , out of the blue, to vent, to ask questions, and Root doesn’t know what to say. She doesn’t know what to make of this, and wishes it had been the Machine that called, with a warning that she had been followed and had to leave quickly. Then, Root would’ve known exactly what to do.

 

There’s a heavy silence lingering on the line before Shaw decides to speak again. “We chased a ghost today,” she goes on, fairly certain that the hacker’s better half is keeping her up-to-date with the numbers they’re dealing with, “Finch says he’s like you.”

 

Root doesn’t answer; she’s hearing Harold’s voice, filled with fear and then hatred.

 

“Like what you used to do,” Shaw corrects. “Before.”

 

The hacker doesn’t need to blue jack Harold’s phone to know how the conversation went down, and she knows the corrections are Sameen’s, and not his. He doesn’t trust her, probably never will, and the feeling sets uneasily in her stomach.

 

“I don’t have time to track your ghost,” she replies with an empty voice.

 

Shaw scuffs; “I wasn’t asking.”

 

“I really think you were,” the hacker insists, putting the phone down as she shoves a camisole over her head, suddenly exhausted.

 

“I really wasn’t,” the agent protests. “You read too much into things Root.”

 

The mention of her name brings a little smile across her features as she brings the phone back to her ear. “Or maybe you don’t read enough into things, Shaw.”

 

The hacker waits for a moment, eyes blinking away the fatigue that’s threatening to overcome her.

 

Sure enough, Sameen isn’t done asking questions. “Where are you?”

 

“In between jobs,” Root offers, repressing a yawn. She turns off the lights and slips into the bed sheets. “I’m heading North tomorrow.”

 

“That’s conveniently vague,” the agent comments.

 

The hacker smiles; “do you miss me already, Shaw?”

 

“Yeah, ‘cause being tased is something I really miss in my life right now,” Sameen taunts, but Root doesn’t find any traces of disdain or anger in her voice. She thinks she hears worry, and blames it on the static.

 

“You miss me,” she lets her head fall onto the pillow.

 

“I most certainly don’t.”

 

 

[ _RAM_ ]

 

 

After she finishes dialing Sameen’s number, the reddened skin of her hand hurts like hell, its oversensitive nerves roughly brushing against the fabric of her glove. She sniffs loudly as she waits for the call to get picked up, and as soon as the connection goes through, she cheerfully asks; “if it's minus thirty degrees Celsius right now, how long will it take before I die of hypothermia?”

 

The agent doesn’t reply right away, so the hacker only hears her own footsteps in the snow while she treks through the trees. There's only the moon and her flashlight to lead the way, and she knows the Machine is probably tracking her GPS signal to ensure that she’s going where she’s supposed to, though she can’t help but wonder if she’s lost. The thin shadows of the nearby leafless branches mix with hers and she pushes her unwelcomed worries aside.

 

“Why the fuck would I know?” Shaw finally groans at the other end of the line.

 

“Because you're a doctor,” Root replies as if it was self-evident, nearly twisting her ankle on a rock hidden under snow. She curses her inattention and tries to focus more on where she’s stepping, although the darkness isn’t making it any easier.

 

“Yes, _that's_ why I studied medicine Root,” the agent impatiently retorts. “To answer your trivia questions.”

 

“Well, why _did_ you study medicine, Sameen?” She knows the question isn't fair. It sounds like a reproach or an accusation, and she has no right to ask it, especially not with that tone, but Root is cold and annoyed and Shaw won't listen to her. She isn't really surprised when the agent disconnects the call.

 

Undeterred, the hacker dials back.

 

“I was serious about hypothermia, you know,” Root continues as if Sameen hadn't hung up on her seconds before.

 

“And I was serious about not talking to you,” Shaw argues, but doesn’t end the call either, which the brunette takes as a good sign.

 

“The Machine gives me eight hours, but I think it's going to be less than that.” The hacker hears the agent sighing, but purposefully ignores Sameen's mood. “Minus thirty is freezing.”

 

Shaw’s voice is detached and apathetic as she replies; “it's below zero, so, yes, it's literally past the freezing point.”

 

“You're not helping,” Root remarks, slightly disappointed. Sameen’s annoyance isn’t unexpected of course; the Machine had predicted that calling Shaw was going to be pointless. Of course, She doesn't understand why Her Analog Interface needs to speak to one of Her favorite assets, because the Machine doesn't get that Root has always really, really hated the cold.

 

Shaw’s voice remains distant anyhow. “I wasn't aware I was supposed to help.”

 

“Are you busy right now?” Root asks in a rush, trying to sound careless, though it comes out almost accusingly.

 

“No,” the agent replies on the defensive. “Why?”

 

The hacker snorts, cheering herself as she finally reaches a trail. “You're a lot nicer when you're the one calling.”

 

“Am not,” Sameen argues, but her voice is slightly warming up. There's a silence on the line and Root listens to Shaw’s steady breathing, opposed to her erratic shallow breaths. She gazes at the sky, finds the Ursa Minor constellation and Polaris again before she continues down the path, her steps a bit lighter now that she isn’t knee-deep into snow. “Root?”

 

“Yeah?” Her voice is making mist when she speaks, and she smiles. The night doesn’t seem as dark as it was a few minutes ago, and a calm feeling settles in her gut.

 

“Why are you dying from hypothermia?” Shaw asks, evidently surrendering to the conversation.

 

Root smiles and looks up at the stars again. “I really think I am, Sameen.”

 

“How long have you been walking?” From the other end of the line, the hacker hears the opening and closing of some cupboard and imagines the agent, safe and warm in her apartment, and it brings a ping of homesickness inside her. She doesn’t really remember what a home actually is, though.

 

She pictures Daniel Casey's hideout, the warm and cosy little shack. With the image immediately comes the memory of the explosion; the fire licking the walls, the black column of smoke rising up in the night’s sky. She thinks back to when she split up with Casey, letting him run towards the city, towards safety, while she settled for the darkness of the forest to bait the Decima agents away from the boy.

 

“I don't know,” Root replies with a sigh. “I've been trying to draw them into the woods.”

 

Intrigued, Shaw simply asks: “who?”

 

The hacker shrugs, even though there’s no one to see her. “Guys with guns.”

 

Root likes to think there’s a little bit of worry in Sameen’s voice when she questions; “are they still on your tail?”

 

“Not for about an hour, no,” she answers.

 

“Then maybe you should head back to civilisation,” Shaw suggests, and she sounds almost friendly. “You know, before you lose some of your toes,” she jokes.

 

“Do you think it could happen?” Root wonders, sparing one look towards her boots, as if she could assess the damage to her limbs even through the thick material. “Because the Machine says it’s not likely.”

 

The agent seems a bit worried when she questions; “since when don't you trust the Machine?”

 

Root winces. “Of course I trust Her.”

 

She lifts up her gaze and looks at the road ahead, noticing the lights of a city on the horizon. She resists a sigh when she evaluates there’s about an hour to go on foot before she reaches it.

 

“Then why are you asking me?”

 

The hacker doesn't answer, slightly embarrassed, but doesn’t dare lie to Sameen.

 

“Root, did you call me for no reason?” Shaw sounds both surprised and mocking.

 

“No,” she argues, though she knows she’s not fooling anyone. “I really hate the cold,” she admits, as if it explained everything. The agent remains silent, and Root gives up. “Yes, Sameen, I called you to get my mind off things. Happy?”

 

“Not really,” although Shaw sounds genuinely amused, like she doesn’t mind the call all that much. “I'm not your phone buddy.”

 

The hacker laughs. “Well who else do you want me to call,” she challenges, “Harold’s pet?”

 

“Hey, you know John's a good guy, right?” Shaw quickly defends him, though her voice isn’t harsh or angry.

 

“Right,” Root rolls her eyes, not really convinced.

 

She hears a familiar tone disrupting the call and looks at her phone, but there's nothing on the screen apart from Sameen's name.

 

“Look, I got Finch on another line,” Shaw announces.

 

“Oh, okay,” Root gives in, knowing better than to stand in the way of Sameen’s work. Not only would the agent definitely lose her patience with her, but the Machine would also scold her for getting in the way of Harold's mission. She doesn’t really get it, saving irrelevant people, but it isn’t part of her job anyway, so she doesn’t mind.

 

Sameen's voice is warm when it reaches her ear. “You're not going to lose your toes.”

 

“Promise?”

 

“You're being ridiculous,” the agent replies in a beat. “I'm hanging up.”

 

[ _/_ ]

 

She blinks a few times, rewinds the tape, watches the same eighteen seconds again, and again. She freezes the image, and on the screen, she could be anyone. She could be just any New Yorker entering a building, an anonymous woman leading a normal life, but she knows it isn’t so. The truth is, Sameen could recognize her anywhere, through any crowd, and in this quiet morning, without any disguise, she’s easy to pick apart.

 

There is a moment where Shaw thinks of erasing the tape. A thought like a flash; she could make her disappear. John wouldn’t know. Harold wouldn’t know. Just a few clicks, and Root would become a ghost. Sameen would call her afterwards, she would find out what the hell is going on and Reese and Finch would be none the wiser.

 

As soon as she’s done picturing it, she knows she won’t go through with that plan; it’s messy and stupid, and it would place her at odds with her boss, and for what? She doesn’t have time to ponder that question further, seeing as Reese makes her choice for her by leaving his post by the door. He reaches her side, sends one look towards the screen and, concerned, taps on his earpiece.

 

“Finch?” He glooms over the computer, scowling. “It looks like Cyrus Wells had a visitor this morning. 7:04 sharp.”

 

“A visitor, Mister Reese?” Finch asks, and he seems worried, picking up on John’s stress.

 

“I’m sending you the security feed,” and John pushes her aside slightly, capturing Root’s image and sending it to Finch. It sets uneasy with her, like she wants to say something, but she doesn’t know what.

 

“Miss Groves,” Harold simply replies once he’s seen the video, and Shaw wants to tell him that her name is Root, but then again, she isn’t clear on that. She has never met Samantha Groves, doesn’t know who Root was, really, before she pretended to be Veronica, before she became obsessed with the Machine. With freeing the Machine, first, and now... Now she isn’t sure what Root is exactly. _Analog Interface_ doesn’t mean anything. _Root_ doesn’t mean much, but it seems to her that _Samantha Groves_ has long ceased to exist.

 

“Let’s go,” John suggests, and they leave the two unconscious security guards behind in their cubicle, still sitting on their chairs like they just fell asleep.

 

Shaw walks beside Reese, silent.

 

“What do you want us to do, Finch?” he asks, and Shaw wonders if there’s some strange connection they haven’t made yet, something that would tie Cyrus Wells to trouble and that wouldn’t be Root. She worries on why the Machine would warn them about her own Interface, unless she has gone rogue, but Sameen doesn’t believe she did. She pictures the smiling woman on the video and hears a stubborn brunette that calls at any hour day or night with stupid questions that don’t need answers, and she knows the hacker hasn’t strayed.

 

Not for the first time, though, she tires of the lack of information, of the doubts, of the Machine’s games.

 

“We need to stop her, Mister Reese,” Finch sounds almost panicked, like he’s seen a ghost or like there’s a bomb about to blow, and Shaw frowns.

 

John doesn’t notice – or if he does, he pretends not to. “Don’t worry; we’ll get her and bring her back to the library.”

 

Shaw doesn’t like to think of the hacker locked in a cage, and remembers well the constellation of needle pricks on her arms, the deep scar behind her ear.

 

“Root’s working for the Machine,” Sameen reminds them, almost surprised by the sound of her own voice. Of how convinced it seems to be. “What if this is just like what happened with Greenfield?”

 

“Only this time it isn’t you that she’s abducted, Miss Shaw,” Harold opposes. “I doubt that Mister Wells can hold his own as well as you.”

 

She wonders if they have seen the same eighteen seconds of video, although she understands she’ll never perceive Root as Finch does. She’ll never look at the brunette in fear, in horror, in revulsion. Not only because she rarely feels anything, but because she’s seen worse monsters. She knows she is one herself.

 

“Besides, we still don’t know what Miss Groves wanted with Mister Greenfield,” Harold argues moreover. “We don’t know her endgame.”

 

“The Machine’s,” Shaw replies dryly, and John looks at her with a curious expression, like she’s not making any sense. “Root’s just following orders.”

 

A moment of silence settles between the three of them, and Sameen doesn’t know if she crossed a line, but doesn’t really care.

 

“Even if it is so, the Machine wouldn’t send us Cyrus Wells’ number if he wasn’t in danger,” Finch argues. “Our mission is to protect him, and Miss Groves is definitely the most obvious threat in his life right now.”

 

“Locking her up would be the safest way, Shaw,” John agrees, but he doesn’t look at her, not directly.

 

Shaw isn’t deterred. “We don’t know what her mission is yet”, she states, hiding her hands inside her pockets as they reach the storm outside. “There’s three of us, and one of hers; I say we just tag along. See what she does.”

 

There’s another moment of silence before Finch sighs. “Alright, Miss Shaw,” he concurs reluctantly. “Let’s just hope you are right about Miss Groves.”

 

She shrugs. Sameen doesn’t know much about Samantha Groves, but she thinks maybe she knows a little about Root.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains parts 12 to 17 of _Aletheia/Take Cover_ on Tumblr.

 

[ / ]

 

 

Root doesn’t mind the cold this time, as she follows Cyrus in the park. There’s a strange calmness that’s settled inside her, despite the turmoil of the snowstorm that grew while she was having breakfast with the janitor. She smiles, still searching for his importance in the Machine’s plan, his role in this big game they are playing. Then, she hears it.

 

_Admin. Twenty meters on your left._

 

The hacker fights the urge to look at him as she walks beside Cyrus, notices Finch’s small figure hiding behind a newspaper. She fights the desire to ask if Her favorite Asset is around too, or just Her Contingency. Of course she knows Reese is certainly following Finch, especially when he decides to spy on her, but there could be any number of reasons why Shaw wouldn’t be bothered so early in the morning. Still, part of her believes Shaw is watching, and so she sighs and smiles.

 

“You should know better than to try to sneak up on me, Harold.” Strangely content despite everything, she pushes aside the memories of the last time she saw him, the vivid remembrance of getting shot and tortured and losing a part of herself. “Did you come to welcome me back to New York?”

 

She sits beside him like they’re old friends, and part of her strangely wishes they were.  Despite the Library and his fear of her, she still feels that thrill at being finally outwitted by someone, at meeting a challenge for the first time in her life. No matter what Finch says or does, she can’t erase that, just like she can’t force him to forget what she did to him. Sometimes she catches herself, still dreaming of the code they could create if they ever settled to work on something together. Of how they could liberate the Machine once and for all.

 

Part of her knows it’ll never happen now.

 

Besides, the Machine needs her Analog Interface more than ever, now.

 

“Actually we’re here for Mister Wells,” he says as he stands up and she follows him, a bit surprised. “His number came at 7:04 this morning.”

 

“Your multi-faceted Machine sure does works in mysterious ways, doesn’t she?” She smiles as she wonders if this means she’ll be asked to team up with Shaw once again, and there’s a mixture of anticipation and nervousness that settles in her stomach.

 

Finch doesn’t seem to notice. “In this case perhaps not _that_ mysterious,” he states, obviously not as pleased as she is with the situation. “When Mister Reese and Miss Shaw accessed the security system in the building where he works, they found you, approaching him at precisely 7:04 am.”

 

She looks at the video as he speaks, but she’s not really paying attention. Her brain is still focused on why Cyrus Wells would be important enough to be protected by her and Finch’s team, and even as she listens to his voice, the Machine is giving her Reese and Shaw’s positions further into the park. “Whatever your plan is Miss Groves? I believe you’re going to get him killed.”

 

“Relax Harold, nobody is getting anybody killed,” she walks, trying to get her thoughts back onto the mission. “Cyrus is perfectly safe with me,” she smiles innocently as she hooks her arm around his, and is glad when he doesn’t flinch or pushes her away. Again, she catches herself picturing Daniel Casey’s cabin, its warmth, its cosiness, and then the explosion that destroyed it, and she looks down.

 

There is worry and annoyance in Finch’s voice, and she tries to ignore it when she repeats; “it could mean I’m here to protect him.” She doesn’t remind him of Jason or tell him about Daizo, about Daniel, about the good she’s been doing. Instead, she allows this voice inside to speak up, this petty voice that says that she should confront him with what she went through to save him from Control, just to teach him a lesson about talking down to her. “Honestly Harold, keeping up with everything that the Machine whispers in my ear can be tricky,” she jokes, “especially now that I’m down to one.”

 

She shows him the scar and knows exactly why. She needs him to see what she lost for her beliefs, just how far she is willing to go. She wants him to feel guilty for leaving her behind, and even as she does she knows she shouldn’t, but can’t help herself.

 

“Oh my...” Finch simply states, and Root realises that if he truly didn’t know, then it means Shaw never told him about the time she stayed at her apartment, and there is a warm feeling that settles in her chest at the thought.

 

“Oh did you not hear about my chat with Control?” she insists, and his look of worry and surprise is enough to convince her. “She’s fun! In an unnecessary stapedectomy kind of way.”

 

She waits a beat before she adds, “but I do miss music in stereo,” because she does. She doesn’t know what to do with this void it left, this never-ending remembrance that she’s breakable. That she’s human, not a machine, and that means weakness, a bad coding in her DNA that she’ll never be able to change.

 

“I’m sorry,” Finch tells her, and it sounds like he means it, but she has no idea what to do with this sudden honesty.

 

She sends an awkward look to the side. “The Machine offered me a job; she never said it would be easy.”

 

When Finch asks her what she’s doing for Her exactly, she’s reminded of the stakes and sets aside her musings on weakness and that strange, foreign longing she’s had that she can’t really name.

 

“Trying to save the world of course,” and she knows she sounds cocky, but it’s how she likes to talk of matters of life and death; like they don’t hold that much importance; like she couldn’t be bothered with them. It’s just easier that way.

 

When Harold doesn’t seem worried enough, though, she scolds him lightly; “do you really want to see what it looks like when two gods go to war?” She thinks of Cyrus again, of his importance in all this, and gets a ping of hurt from knowing that Finch’s team isn’t here to help with her mission, but to play bodyguard to some stranger. “Maybe you should be more worried about what happens when Samaritan comes online than about what happens to some janitor.”

 

Harold only sees it as an opportunity to tell her more about Cyrus and his past, but she’s barely listening. The Machine is updating John and Sameen’s positions in the park and she knows Shaw isn’t far now, just behind her actually, and she wishes she could ditch Finch and just go and see her, although she doesn’t really know why. It doesn’t sit well with her, that inexplicable urge, but at the same time it soothes something inside Root.

 

Sameen’s presence – or at the very least, Root’s knowledge of it – strangely calms her, and instead of getting into an argument with Finch about the irrelevant numbers and the importance of her own tasks, she simply smiles. “He’ll be fine, I promise.”

 

When the Machine warns her that it is time to leave, Root wishes she could stay, wishes she could turn around and flirt with Shaw to take the edge off. To forget all about Samaritan and broken ears. To stop thinking about bad coding and the estimations that the Machine updates every morning; the probability of her death, augmenting every twenty-four hours like clockwork.

 

“I know it seems weird but, I’m one of the good guys now Harold.”

 

She doesn’t know why it scares her so much to hear her own voice say it aloud.

 

 

[ / ]

 

 

In the course of just five words, Root manages to ruin Sameen’s otherwise good mood.

 

“I heard you skipped breakfast,” she speaks down from the window, and Shaw remembers how condescendingly annoying Root can be. With that AI buzzing all answers in her ears she’s so full of herself, so irritatingly confident in her own abilities to survive anything, and the worst part is, Shaw somehow believes it too. She hates that she trusts Root can take care of herself. That she’s tougher than she looks, with her wide smiles and trusting eyes – when she wants them to be.

 

“And you and your australopithecine co-worker can just take the day off,” Root continues with a smile and Shaw wonders what she was expecting exactly by suggesting to Finch and Reese that they simply tag along Root, but it wasn’t this.

 

Somehow, she had thought they would work together, as they had done with Greenfield, even though she realises now that it is unlikely to happen again. Harold doesn’t trust Root’s intentions in the slightest, and Root gleams like she’s proving a point just by being back in New York, which isn’t helping. “I’ve been doing just fine without a safety net.”

 

There are many things Shaw could reply to that, the most obvious being Root’s strange phone calls over the course of the last few weeks. Evidently the brunette can handle herself; she didn’t have a backup when she went to Japan (at this point Sameen is almost certain it was Japan) or even when she went somewhere far up North, a place so cold that she feared hypothermia and the loss of her toes. Still, she needed Shaw, enough to call her out of the blue, _just to talk_.

 

It would be the easiest thing to point out, and Root wouldn’t be able to argue that fact, but Sameen doesn’t like to think about it. About Root’s voice reaching her from anywhere around the world and asking for things Shaw could never give. Instead, Shaw surprisingly finds herself telling another truth, one she’d also rather not discuss.

 

“Look the only reason you’re not stuck in a cage right now is me,” she argues, and is reminded of that short moment earlier, when she considered erasing the surveillance tape to keep the knowledge of Root’s presence all to herself. “Don’t make me look bad.”

 

Thankfully, Root doesn’t say anything about Shaw vouching for her; doesn’t read anything into it. Instead, she joyfully flirts; “I couldn’t make you look bad if I tried,” and then Sameen is left alone to roll her eyes, an energy bar in her hand.

 

There are so many things she doesn’t like about Root; she’s too flirty, too loud, and too reckless. As Shaw waits under the morning sun, she blames Root for the early awakening and the snowstorm, for everything from the twinge in her knee to Harold’s overall anxiousness. Whenever Root is around, Finch becomes fiddly and stressed, and suddenly everything seems to be about _doing the right thing_ and _being a good guy_ and Sameen doesn’t really know where she fits in all that.

 

Doesn’t like to imagine what Harold thinks of her, when she’s not around to save his life.

 

Fortunately, no one could ever make janitor-watch as interesting as Root can, and a few minutes later Sameen’s patience is strangely rewarded by a bullet breaking the window Root had been in only moments before.

 

It is Shaw's favorite part of the job; rushing into trouble head first, heart pumping and blood coursing through her veins. She loves that she knows where the limits are here, the line between a calculated risk and being reckless, between the unknown that she can handle herself and the situations where she needs backup. This isn't one of them, she can tell; this is some ordinary janitor being threatened, although when Root is around, there's really no telling. A simple mission brings you to a black site impersonating a CIA operative and you kind of have to roll with it.

 

She’s enjoying the best kind of multitasking as she runs across the street, luring away a couple of Vigilance guys even as she makes her way towards the sniper. Judging by the angle the shot came through the window, Sameen speculates they have to be positioned on the third or fourth floor, and she smirks slightly when she sees she’s right on her first guess.

 

She adds _gathering intel_ to her to-do list when Vigilence silences one of their own to keep the sniper from saying anything about Cyrus Wells and his importance to the terrorist group.

 

Fortunately, over the radio, Peter Collier tries to sound like he knows her, and Shaw recognizes weakness when she hears it. “See based on the way you fight, I think you were a clandestine operative for the good old U.S. of A., but based on the people you protect, I think you’re not anymore.” He’s gloating, evidently proud of himself and Sameen would roll her eyes if she wasn’t busy already. Besides, on the count of being annoying, he’s got nothing on Root. “And I’m guessing it’s because they betrayed you.”

 

“Are you guys gonna shoot again or just talk me to death?” she taunts, because a man like him has no idea who she is, what she is.

 

Sameen knows very well that she isn’t here for a cause, or a paycheck, or some adrenaline rush. It isn't the danger that she craves as much as it is the unfolding of events. The dominos falling around her until she deduces exactly which one will hit the floor last.

 

Before the accident, her father used to teach her how to look for patterns repeating in football games. He said, if one knew the players and the coach well enough, then one could successfully speculate which play they would attempt, and even if it would work or not. Sameen liked to guess, and with every game she got better and her father, prouder. On nights she couldn’t sleep, she felt like maybe she wasn't as much a disappointment as she thought she was.

 

In this old warehouse, too, she is well awake. Ten hours since that energy bar and she’s strangely ecstatic. Hunger has turned into a fire inside and she lurks in the corners, hiding in the shadows until she can reach the exit. She counted eleven operatives – ten now. One of them got killed in an inevitable shootout on the second level, and Sameen strongly suspect it was friendly fire, but she didn’t stay around long enough to investigate.

 

In here she is like a rat in a maze and if she wondered for the first hour where the hell Reese was, it is obvious now that she has been left alone with her Vigilance friends. Perhaps she is a distraction in the grand scheme of things, or maybe something happened, she wouldn’t be able to say. She hasn’t heard any explosions from Cyrus Well’s building though, only gunshots, and Shaw doesn’t think a dozen of Vigilance guys could take down Reese and Root, so she doesn’t worry too much about them.

 

Besides, she reminds herself, she isn’t wired for it anyway.

 

For the ten past hours, every thirty minutes or so she had gotten the slightest window to a headshot and struggled not to take it. She thought of Harold’s rule and knew she had to follow them now, even when he’s not there to annoy her with them. That’s the one thing she hates most about rules; they become so much harder to follow when you’re left alone. There’s that voice inside her that says no one would know, no one would care, and certainly not her, while Shaw tries to remind herself of Finch’s disappointment, and the Machine’s omniscience, and Cole’s gentle eyes. Only then she trusts that maybe someone would know, someone would care, and every time, she doesn’t shoot.

 

It’s only later, after she made a run for the exit and finds herself cornered, that Peter Collier finally offers what she knows he’s been waiting to suggest since the beginning of this little cat-and-mouse game they’ve been playing all day.

 

“I don’t like killing patriots so I’m going to give you one more chance,” he starts, inspired as if he’s offering her a new chance at life. Sameen remembers in a flash that first meeting with Harold, that night when she refused his help – _trust issues_ , she had told him, even though there was something in his eyes that seemed _right_. She doesn’t find that glimpse in Peter’s eyes; only anger.

 

“That’s funny I was gonna say the same thing to you,” she replies with a smirk. If he’s got nothing on Root, well he’s got nothing on Harold either.

 

But Peter Collier is not done, and he continues talking; “if you join us, you will not only have your revenge, but you will help write a new chapter in American history.”

 

She feels it in her blood, that stirring, that need to fight and let the anger overcome her and burn everything; it comes back every time she thinks of Cole’s blood in her hands and Control’s part in it. It slowly tones down, however, when she remembers that evening with Hersh, that sadness comically painted on his face, and Root’s strangely soft voice as she confessed _I wanted to kill him_ like they had that in common, Shaw and her, that _longing_ and Shaw hadn’t listened, but she sees and hears it in Peter too. That thirst for violence, and blood, chaos, and revenge.

 

 “You’re right,” she says, and the sturdiness and honesty in her voice surprises even her. “About all of it.” There, she speaks words she had kept for herself for a long time now, words she thought were too dangerous to voice before; “I did work for the government, and I do want revenge.”

 

Around her, she sees the dominos falling, one after the other, and she knows which one will hit the floor last. “But if that work taught me anything,” she smirks, because even though she hasn’t spoken the words yet she’s found them, she’s holding them inside and she sees where she’s going now, which play she’s going to use to win the game, “it’s that _how_ you do matters as much as _what_ you do.”

 

She remembers the rules she had set for herself and knows how they balance her, strengthen her. Give her purpose. “And by that metric you’re all just terrorists.”

 

So many rules like chains to contain the monster she could easily become. To think before she acts. To assess the consequences of every action. Not to take a life unless it’s absolutely necessary. Because she was fearless, Hersh had added other rules: no self-sacrifice; try to get yourself out of harm’s way when possible.

 

“And I kill terrorists.”

 

It isn’t possible to follow them all, now.

 

Now, Shaw unleashes the monster, and revels in the pain she gives and receives. Heart pumping, blood coursing. Alive, she is.

 

So very much alive.

 

 

[ / ]

 

 

Maybe it’s because the dawn is creeping up on them, or maybe it’s the overall fatigue that pulls them all down; either way, the silence in the safe house crackles with tension as Shaw prepares herself to pull out a bullet from Root’s chest.

 

With steady hands despite the uncomfortable electricity in the air, Shaw carefully places every supply she needs on the living room table, ignoring the eyes digging holes in her back. Across the room, John and Harold whisper secrets that come to Shaw only as an annoying hum, quietly reminding her that she doesn’t know yet what happened to the others as she fought a dozen Vigilance agents.

 

Harold has offered vague answers about Decima Technologies and some chip stored in the building where Cyrus Wells was employed – something about a background check, and about the Samaritan drives. Still, the clues are a bit chaotic and meaningless to her, but a panic lurking behind Harold’s answers convinced Shaw that tonight wasn’t the moment to insist. Besides, whatever little peace she had found in her short warm shower vanished as soon as John, Root and Cyrus joined Harold and her at the safe house.

 

The three of them stormed in, Root in front, hand clutched at her chest with that strange, absent look that twisted her lips up when she gazed at Cyrus. “I'm fine,” she repeated a few times as Sameen helped her to the couch, and the traumatised janitor fled on the balcony. Root muttered something about him disliking blood as much as he feared guns, and the awkward silence begun there, with Harold’s shocked, opened mouth – an expression not unlike the one he had gathered earlier, when Shaw had walked in the library, bloodied and pissed.

 

Root isn’t angry, though. Shaw cannot tell what Root feels exactly, but seeing how the others behave around her, she thinks even they don’t really know what she’s thinking. They look at her differently, with less fear and more pity, but Shaw doesn’t like to dwell on the reasons why.

 

With her sweaty forehead and shaking hands, Root somewhat reminds Shaw of that night she passed out under her living room window, and Shaw quickly shrugs the image away. She concentrates on the task and ignores the way Root sends her own dazed look at the balcony’s door, absently holding a gauze pad over her wound, bent forward like she was when she rushed in – too proud to be helped by John, or perhaps the man didn’t offer; with those two, it’s hard to tell.

 

Apart from her blatant lack of knowledge of recent events, her deep exhaustion and the firing hunger nested in her stomach, something John said adds to Shaw’s general uneasy state. Something about Root walking through the crossfire to save Cyrus, _knowing_ she would get shot, and it is something Shaw isn’t sure to understand, and that makes her skin itch. She hides it by taking another sip of whiskey.

 

“So you think you’re bulletproof now?” She speaks because she can’t bear the silence anymore, and Root blinks, eyes focusing on her again.

 

“Not more than you are,” she smiles, waving her fingers towards the wound on Shaw’s arm – the one hidden away under her sweater, but Shaw knows the Machine probably updated Root about her status all day. Of course the Machine would tell her all about her fight with Vigilance, and somehow that makes her feel as if she was more naked than the brunette that sits in front of her in nothing but a camisole.

 

“Mine’s just a cut,” Shaw corrects her. “You’re lucky it didn’t puncture your lung.”

 

With the corner of her eye she sees Harold leaving for the balcony, and she tries to ignore her curiosity as she notices Root’s gaze dropping to the floor, Root swallowing hard.

 

“Yes, I am a lucky girl, aren’t I?” Root’s usual flirtatious tone is tainted with some kind of weird sadness and it makes Shaw even more uncomfortable. Root grabs the glass of whiskey on the settee and takes a sip just as Shaw offers her a towel to bite on, which Root declines with one shake of her head.

 

When Shaw plunges the hemostats into her wound Root gasps, eyes watering and knuckles whitening as she clutches on the leather of the couch. Shaw twists the pliers slightly until she finds the bullet, carefully applying pressure on it while trying to avoid furthering the damage already done to the inner tissue. She feels the expected resistance as she pulls slowly and notices Root’s eyes closing.

 

“I’m nearly done,” Shaw says after a few seconds, for Root’s benefit or her own, she doesn’t know – or maybe it is simply to ensure that Root doesn’t pass out from the pain, with forceps still digging in her chest.

 

There are tears running down Root’s face when Shaw pulls the hemostats out of her chest and she brushes them quickly before she grimaces a smile.

 

“Hope you like the souvenir,” she tries, and it falls with the same disappointing clunk of the bullet dropped in the metal recipient Shaw had set aside earlier.

 

There’s a bit more blood flowing out of the wound now and Shaw’s gloved hands reach up to hold the gauze pad in place, pressing hard against Root’s skin until Root finds the strength to take up the task again. Only then Shaw somewhat relaxes, preparing the needle to suture the wound, yet Root starts fidgeting on her seat, fingers absently playing with her right ear.

 

“Still doing that, huh?” Shaw points out, and Root appears confused again.

 

“Oh, didn’t you hear about my new toy?” she smiles when she realises what Shaw had meant, and uses her spare hand to pull her brunette curls apart and show the clean bandage stuck just behind her ear.

 

“Fancy Cochlear implant,” Shaw guesses, returning her eyes on her job. She ignores the quiet hisses coming from under her as she sutures the wound patiently. “Got that today?”

 

Root confirms with a nod, vaguely brushing the topic away as she always does, and Shaw rolls her eyes before she cuts the string.

 

Shaw is suddenly very conscious of John’s eyes on her as she works, and she takes one more sip of whiskey before she starts cleaning the wound, just to feel the warmth relaxing her tensed muscles. Every inch of her body hurts from bruises still invisible and despite escaping from it a few hours ago, she feels the weight of the warehouse’s dirt in her lungs. She’s dying to lie down and get some rest but stubbornly ignores it nonetheless.

 

Root does the same, taking Shaw’s drink from the settee and sipping lightly, plunging her eyes inside Shaw’s, but Shaw quickly averts her gaze to focus on her task. Shaw knows that part well, knows that Root will flirt to avoid talking about what happened to her earlier, and Shaw is too tired to care.

 

Her indifference is surprisingly rewarded by after another minute of silence, while Shaw finishes cleaning the wound and sticks a fresh gauze pad in place, her fingers pressing roughly against the tape despite the hurt skin underneath.

 

As soon as Shaw is done, Root confesses in a whisper; “I’m not very good at it,” in a voice so low that Shaw almost doesn’t hear it. Root looks up at her for a second, eyes blinking in confusion. “Being human.”

 

Shaw doesn’t know what to reply to that, but it turns out Root doesn’t really expect an answer, because she immediately grabs the clean sweater pooled beside her, pulling it on despite the grimace of pain that flashes on her face. Root hurriedly leaves the couch and grabs her coat, not sparing Shaw another look before she joins Cyrus Wells on the balcony.

 

Left behind, Shaw rolls her eyes in annoyance, more for John’s sake than hers.

 

 

[ / ]

 

 

The train station buzzes with strangers and Root absently listens as the Machine whispers secrets about each and every one of them. Through the infrasound in the implant, it doesn’t sound quite like it used to, but Root likes it. She sounds closer somehow, almost like it’s an inner voice, a friendly ghost or an imaginary friend. The scar behind her ear reminds her She isn’t, and she smiles.

 

Amongst the crowd, with the Machine’s constant buzzing in her ear, the morning is oddly peaceful, and when she sips her coffee – too hot, she grimaces – Root thinks of just how _normal_ she seems right now, just how well she can blend in.

 

She flinches inwardly at the thought; too close to ideas she ran away from when she left her hotel room, about an hour ago. The Machine repeats the information regarding her train and her route, and Root knows she arrived at the station way too early, knows she should’ve lingered in bed to get some more rest – her body is killing her – but she just couldn’t stay still.

 

When she lies down, she can’t help but stare at the ceiling, hearing Harold’s words, her last conversations with him replaying in her mind constantly. It reminds her that more than just the Machine’s way of communicating with her has changed in the previous few days, and she’s unsure of how she feels about that. She catches her reflection in windows and mirrors every now and then, and averts her eyes.

 

Besides, when she does sleep she has restless dreams about things like bad code and irrelevant numbers, Samaritan’s god-like plans – a twisted version of the world Cyrus believes in, a universe like a machine ticking as clockwork and Root guts it open and lets it bleed into chaos, because she _knows_ people cheat and steal and kill for what they want with no second thoughts to the consequences. To the fallout.

 

Morning comes then, and Root pushes the thoughts aside, always. She doesn’t like to think about the way things fall after she leaves.

 

It’s become abundantly clear, however, that her God has sent her into Cyrus Wells’ path to show her just that – to remind her of how ruthless she could be if she allowed herself to, but something else as well. Something she didn’t want to know about herself – something she tried to smother a long time ago.

 

Root never wanted her heart to be anything but a muscle and now at the oddest moments it hurts and tugs at her chest sometimes, and she doesn’t know how to get rid of it. How to forget the urgency and fear she feels when she thinks of Samaritan and when the Machine reminds her how little chance they have of stopping it from coming online. How little chance she has of coming out of this alive.

 

Everything seemed easier when this was a just a job – a job Root would’ve died for, but just a job nonetheless.

 

_I’m doing all of this to save you_ , she had told Harold in the spur of the moment, and Root could never take it back; could never stop hearing herself admit it aloud. It made it sound like a lie, when later she tried to convince herself that nothing mattered but the Machine. It reminded her that Harold did matter to her. Shaw mattered. Even John, and Fusco, and that dog they all loved, in their own ways.

 

But as scary as those thoughts were, they weren’t the ones to drive her out of a hotel room an hour too early. No, what Root couldn’t say – what she couldn’t think about, really – was if _she_ mattered as well. If a tiny bit of this work she was doing was to save herself. The Machine would protect her as much as she could, she knew – but would Root do anything to protect herself?

 

Root had never really mattered before.

 

But then the Machine had come along and changed that – shaped her into an Analog Interface and gave her life meaning and purpose. In the short moments Decima had severed her link to Her, she had felt terrified and lost, because what was Root without the Machine? She had no answer to that.

 

That was the other truth she had told Harold that night, half-told really, and that frightened her just as much. _What Cyrus believes, it helps him. And who am I to say he’s wrong?_ She hadn’t meant to be talking about herself, hadn’t meant to imply that she needed Harold to stop contradicting her thoughts on the Machine because it was all she had. But Harold had read between the lines, had heard the weakness she had just admitted and this, too, she could never erase.

 

And now, she had no clue of what to make of this new version of Harold that seemed to fear and hate her less, who seemed to pity her even, like she was some kid playing with dangerous toys and refusing to stop. Like he knew truths about the Machine that she didn’t, but agreed not to tell her; agreed not to break her heart.

 

Somehow, it had made everything better on that night with Cyrus Wells.

 

Today, however, in Helsinki’s train station, under the large windows opening up on a bright blue sky, it just makes everything so much worse.

 

Root’s phone buzzes with the arrival of a new text message and pulls her out of her thoughts. She welcomes the distraction, although she frowns as she ponders on the identity of the sender, one hand frantically searching her coat’s pockets while the other balances the coffee and her bag. The Machine doesn’t really use SMS to give her information, and the boys in Perth are under strict orders not to contact her unless it is a dire emergency. Therefore she has no idea who is texting her, and the mystery only makes her smile.

 

_Been 72 hours_ , she reads from an unknown number, and she’s even more confused until a second text appears on the screen. _Change the dressings_.

 

Root doesn’t need the Machine to confirm who it is then, but She volunteers the information anyway.

 

_Asset: Sameen Shaw_ , She names her, and Root’s smirk only widens, strange warmth settling in her chest.

 

_Yes ma’am_ , she texts back and imagines Shaw’s glare; her traits pulled into a scowl and her eyes, not as hard and cold as Sameen wills them to be. Root waits a few seconds before she types in another message, grinning. _Did you want pictures to confirm?_

 

She lets a short moment go by before she asks; “did she roll her eyes?”

 

The people beside her look at her funny, like she’s talking to herself, but she joyfully ignores them and takes another sip of her coffee. Still too warm: she burns the tip of her tongue, but doesn’t care.

 

She receives the answer through her cochlear implant. _Unable to verify_. It bothers her for a second, the fact that the Machine doesn’t have eyes on Shaw, but Root knows the agent can handle herself, and she forces herself to push the worry aside, re-reading the two messages she just received. She shrugs before she closes the phone and shoves it back into her pocket.

 

“It’s okay; I’m sure she did.”

 

 

[ _Allegiance_ ]

 

 

Shaw glances at the happy couple via the mirror above the bar and tries to picture, decades ago, her parents on their first date. Both her mother and her father told her many times the story of how they met and fell in love, and when they went by New York often they had brought Shaw here. There weren’t a lot of constants in her life back then, and perhaps that is why this restaurant now somehow feels like home, even though over the years only the view remained somewhat the same.

 

Chefs, waiters, décor, everything in here changed, but when Shaw gazes out the window she remembers her father more clearly, and maybe that is why she always picks a stool at the bar instead of one of the tables. That way, she can only look outside through the reflection in the mirror, and it makes everything a bit more distant, a bit more the way she likes it.

 

She is halfway down her champagne glass when her cell phone buzzes in her coat’s pocket, and although she strongly doubts that it’s Harold she immediately pulls it out. For a few seconds she stares at the text message – three words from an unknown number – and she frowns.

 

_Meet me downstairs_ , it orders.

 

One eye to the clock tells her the evening is getting quite late, and she’s uncertain if it is by using logic or because of some sort of strange longing for company that she believes the message comes from Root. She chugs down the rest of her champagne, sends one last look at the couple John, Fusco and her saved earlier tonight and heads towards the elevator.

 

When she reaches the main floor of the building, she immediately recognizes Bear through the glass doors and smiles.

 

“Hello boy,” she pats him on the head as soon as she reaches the sidewalk and the dog happily welcomes her by shoving his nose against her hands vigorously.

 

“I think you’re supposed to greet humans before dogs,” Root complains, arms folded in front of her.

 

Shaw hears the amusement in her tone and ignores it, continuing to give the whole of her attention to Bear. She kneels down on one knee, allowing him to come closer to her, and runs her hand against his cold fur. Even though she knows he can endure harsher weather she feels bad for him, considering the night is cold, and she cheers him up by showering him with affection. After a little while she rises back to her feet and pulls out her leather gloves, putting them on as she asks accusingly; “Harold knows you have him?”

 

Root’s smile is soft and warm, “I did call him, yes.” Shaw doesn’t know if it’s the grin or the vague answer that bothers her most, and she shifts uncomfortably, moving aside when a few drunken patrons exit the building behind her.

 

“What are you doing with him?” Shaw questions again when the street quiets down. Root closes the distance between them in one step and shoves the leash inside Shaw’s gloved hands, smirking.

 

“Right now? We’re taking a walk,” she replies as if it was self-evident. When she leaves Shaw’s side and heads south, immediately Bear pulls to follow. Shaw frowns lightly before she agrees to pursue, with the dog quickly adjusting to her pace, staying right beside her when she reaches Root. “We have a job tomorrow.”

 

Shaw frowns, sparing a glance towards the pet that joyfully looks around. “A job for me, or for Bear?”

 

Root grins at her surprise. “I need him.”

 

They walk down a few blocks in silence before Shaw speaks again. “You’ll keep him safe right?” she asks, and it tugs at Root’s heart, the way Shaw can easily express concern for a dog like it was the most important thing in her life.

 

“On my honor,” she swears with a smile, a hand over her heart.

 

Root turns to lead them into a park, and as they enter she moves to encircle her arm around Shaw’s, clinging to her like she had done with Harold only a week before. Only this time she’s a bit more nervous about it, perhaps because the gesture isn’t about making Shaw uncomfortable – although she appreciates how the agent squirms lightly, ignoring Root but not shoving her off anyway. She doesn’t know what it’s about exactly but she feels it means something; something along the lines of comfort and intimacy. Something Root doesn’t really do.

 

“What’s the mission?” Shaw questions, but Root only looks away.

 

“Do you think killing someone for the greater good would make me a bad guy?” Root asks out of the blue, her breath creating little clouds as she speaks.

 

Shaw frowns, tensing beside her. “Who are you planning to kill?”

 

“No I’m just asking,” Root talks carelessly, as if they were discussing nothing of importance. “Do you think it would be okay to kill one person to save many? And still be, you know, _good_?”

 

Bear is happy to sniff the ground around them when Shaw stops. “Harold doesn’t seem to think so.”

 

Root lets go of her then, but her hand runs down Shaw’s arm and even though there are several layers of clothes between them, Shaw keenly feels the warmth of her gesture. “I’m not asking Harold, I’m asking you,” she angles her head towards her, like she’s ready to share her deepest secrets with her, under the night sky in a small and somewhat dirty park, right next to a sleeping street veteran.

 

“What’s going on Root?” Shaw pulls on the leash lightly when Bear starts to be curious about the unconscious man on the bench.

 

Root squeezes her forearm almost tenderly. “You’re really cute when you’re worried.”

 

Shaw rolls her eyes and sighs. “You won’t answer? Fine,” she starts walking again and Bear reluctantly follows. “I won’t answer your stupid question either.”

 

Root stares at her for a few seconds before she steps up, jogging a little to reach her side. She expects more scolding but is only met with silence as they walk side by side, Bear blissfully unaware of the quiet frustration that seeps from Shaw.

 

“Where are you keeping him?” she asks roughly after a while, tone accusing. Root only looks confused. “For the night. Where is Bear going to sleep?”

 

“I don’t know,” Root looks up at the sky, and Shaw guesses that she never really thought of it. She just grabbed the dog and left. “Can’t he just sleep on the floor?”

 

Somehow Shaw expected that answer, but not the warmth she feels when she hears it. It’s almost soothing, in a way, and she has no idea where it comes from. “For someone who’s supposed to be a genius you don’t think ahead much do you?” Shaw states, trying to sound angry still, but it comes off more playful than anything else. “I’m taking him to my place.”

 

Beside her, Root shakes her head. “I need him early tomorrow morning.”

 

“Well you’ll come to pick him up early then,” Shaw replies, making a left to start going towards her apartment, now that she’s come to a decision.

 

“Could I sleep at your place too?” Shaw shoots her a glare. “I’ll take the couch,” Root insists with a smile.

 

Shaw shrugs and points at the dog. “Bear has the couch.”

 

Root manages to get closer, although this time she doesn’t hold onto Shaw’s arm; she simply nudges her lightly. “Your bed is big enough for the both of us, Sameen.”

 

“It’s mine, too,” Shaw replies. “And you’re not welcomed in it.”

 

“That’s a lie and you know it,” Root winks, but is rewarded with another glare.

 

Shaw speeds up her pace considerably, and Root knows when she’s lost. She accelerates and turns around, walking backwards with her hands plunged deep inside her pockets. She smirks at Shaw, whose reddened cheeks and obvious joy at the thought of spending time with Bear make up for the fact that Root will probably not succeed in convincing her.

 

“Come on, Shaw,” she smiles. “You _love_ having me in your bed.”

 

They pass a couple of teenagers who catcall them when they hear Root’s words, but it takes only one look from Shaw and one bark from Bear to scatter them away, slightly frightened. Root’s grin only deepens.

 

“I really don’t,” Shaw insists, stopping at a red light.

 

Root returns to her side then, and looks up at the city lights reflected on the skyscraper’s windows. She takes long, deep breaths and Shaw finds herself intrigued by her sudden calmness, absently staring at Root as she closes her eyes like she’s taking in the unusual quietness of the evening. When the light turns green Shaw almost misses it.

 

“Maybe I should have an apartment,” Root speaks as she opens her eyelids and starts crossing the street, glancing everywhere but at Shaw.

 

“In the city you mean?” Shaw asks, but Root doesn’t answer, and stops once they’ve reached the sidewalk on the other side of the avenue.

 

She smiles. “There’s a room for me in that hotel,” she points to a building a few blocks over. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

 

She starts walking away, but turns around after a few steps. “Good night, Sameen,” she grins, and as she leaves Shaw can’t help but stare, Bear sitting at her feet. She shrugs off the feeling that she wouldn’t have been bothered if Root had walked with them up to her place, and blames the champagne that she drank too fast on an empty stomach.

 

When she starts walking again, Bear joyfully tags along, and she finds comfort in the quiet sounds of his paws on the sidewalk, the claws rhythmically scratching against the asphalt.

 

 

[ _Most Likely To..._ ]

 

 

Shaw doesn’t like being benched. She doesn’t agree one bit with Harold’s decision to send John and her to save some irrelevant number while he’s leaving for DC to chase Vigilance, but she knows better than to voice her frustration. After all, it seems obvious that if anyone should be hunting down terrorist groups, it’s her, and once again the feeling that Harold isn’t telling them everything returns. It sits uneasy in her stomach, and even though John doesn’t say anything either, she knows he feels the same.

 

Everything about working this number stinks and it’s only worse when they follow Matthew Reed inside a high school and understand that they are going to be spending the weekend at some soppy reunion.

 

As they walk inside, the first thing that hits Shaw is the scent. Bleach and books, she guesses, but she could never pinpoint exactly what it was that made all high schools smell so alike. Even the lockers look the same, only smaller than they were back then, in what seems more than a lifetime ago. Before the Machine and the ISA, before the Marines and Shaw’s failed residency, back when she was just _Sameen_ and had no idea why she did not feel like the others.

 

Back when she knew there was something wrong with her, and tried her best to hide it.

 

At least Matthew Reed is easy on the eyes, and when he notices her, Shaw feels remnants of the awkward girl she used to be. She ignores John’s amused looks and tries to focus on the job, but it’s been a while since the last time someone has set their eyes on her – apart from Root of course. She pushes the thought aside; she’d rather not think about Root, especially not in those terms. Besides, if Shaw was comparing, Root would have nothing on Matthew; the man is confident and smooth, where Root is weird and full of corny lines that make Shaw cringe.

 

Even when John and Shaw leave the school the bleach smell sticks on her, and no matter how much she focuses on the job her thoughts return every now and then to that girl she was then, that awkward teenager that was all brains and instincts, yet lacked everything else. Sameen who had no friends, head always in her books, that weird girl who dated guys but never called them back, who kissed girls but never held their hands.

 

No matter where she and her mother moved to, she was always the girl without a father, with a mother who _isn’t from here_ , and either she was an object of amusement or a curiosity to poke at. Nonetheless, in high school Shaw found it easier to blend in than later in life. There, she could focus on her studies and not be bothered about relationships and her lack of a love life. Mathematics, chemistry, biology; any discipline based on facts and concrete data, she could truly relate to. Those fields of study, she found, made way more sense to her than literature and arts.

 

It isn’t the remembrance of being ostracised that bothers Shaw as she stares at the people gathering this weekend; it’s the celebration of this normal life she never wanted for herself, but felt forced into. The common questions about jobs and partners and whether or not she has kids, and her cover makes her more itchy than usual.

 

As she dances with Matthew, she thinks about the few times where she tried her hand at being in a relationship. How she consciously pretended that she cared about them, reminding herself to call them every once in a while, to invite them out, to tell them that she loved them even though the words meant nothing to her.

 

After a while, sooner or later, they all figured her out. They detected the lies behind her every word, and in their eyes she saw it again. The silent accusation; _Sameen isn’t normal_ , she heard without them ever voicing it. _Sameen doesn’t even have a beating heart_.

 

And the worst thing was, even then, Shaw didn’t care.

 

One after the other, Shaw watched as she broke their hearts, made them cry and sometimes even scream and she didn’t feel guilty about it. Embarrassed for them, maybe, but never more than that. When they called her names she didn’t feel sad or angry; when they called her drunk at three in the morning, she didn’t have a second thought about not picking up the phone.

 

Eventually she learned when to leave before it got to that point, how to enjoy herself without having others develop attachment towards her. Over the years she found pleasure in the chase, in the flirt and the meaningless sex, and with time it became easier and easier to know when to stop, when to back away.

 

This weekend, she doesn’t know if she’s flirting with Matthew just because she feels like it, or because she’s trying to get rid of that high school smell that glues on her clothes like a ghost. Nonetheless, it's been a while since Shaw has allowed herself that luxury, ever since she pulled a bullet out of Root’s chest really, and it makes her awkward to think about her now, something like an itching beneath her skin.

 

There is something similar and yet completely different in the way Matthew and Root look at her; an attraction she recognizes and somewhat appreciates. But Shaw isn’t blind: she’s noticed how Root’s gaze has changed over the last few weeks, how her voice lowers and wavers when she speaks to Shaw. Root’s eyes aren’t filled with lust and mischief as they were when she met Shaw as Veronica; it turned into something else.

 

Something Shaw has seen in lovers’ looks before, just before she crushed their hearts.

 

Something that means it is time for Shaw to leave, to stop, to back away.

 

Yet there is something warm and familiar about Root, some strange pull inside Shaw that makes her hesitate. She finds no explanation as to why she doesn’t mind all that much when Root throws at her countless corny lines, and why Shaw keeps picking up the phone when she calls.

 

Somehow, in Root’s eyes, Shaw sees herself as _Sameen_ , and the thought is deeply unsettling.

 

It is something she’d rather forget all about, and Shaw is somewhat grateful when Vigilance agents show up; at least now she doesn’t have to think, only shoot. She revels in the adrenaline, her heart pumping fast as she and John manage to survive the agents that keep appearing around them. This chaos, she knows very well; she’s only beginning to feel the rush that comes with being in control and surviving impossible odds when her phone rings.

 

Of course, like everything else about her, Root’s timing would never be quite right.

 

“Sorry to bother you Shaw,” Root announces as soon as Shaw picks up the call. Bullets are flying over Shaw’s head and it is definitely not the best time to chat.

 

“I’m a little busy here Root,” Shaw protests, although she knows that won’t deter Root. Nothing deters Root.

 

Despite the loud detonations of guns that she can obviously hear through the phone, Root doesn’t immediately reveal the reason behind her call; she stalls, taking her time before she finally tells Shaw what she actually wanted to say, and as annoying as Root sounds Shaw finds she expects it – the running around, the mystery, the speaking in codes.

 

Root being Root.

 

No, what truly bothers Shaw is how Root is also on Vigilance’s trail, evidently on the Machine’s orders, and no one knew before now. What troubles her is how they work for the same entity but don’t coordinate their efforts – how they work in the dark, with half-information shrouded in mystery.

 

What bothers Shaw is never knowing what Root is up to.

 

The more she thinks of it and the angrier she gets, and it’s good that Root hangs up to go and help Harold because Shaw has nothing nice to say about Root and her precious Machine at the moment, about their willingness to keep everything a secret, and the sheer recklessness that comes with that division of intelligence.

 

The more Shaw thinks of Root, the more she finds herself searching for anything concrete about her. As she realises how little she knows about Root and her role as Analog Interface, the anger inside her only burns brighter.


End file.
